


Prologue

by hcope



Series: The8 Ships 30K Agenda [3]
Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Betrayal of Trust, Combat Violence, Controlling Behavior, Dysfunctional Relationships, Emotional Growth, Extreme Bodily Harm, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Learning Trust and Respect, M/M, Magic, Magical Illness, Minor Hong Jisoo | Joshua/Wen Jun Hui | Jun, Mutual Pining, Non-Graphic Violence, Pining, Vaguely D&D-Inspired World-Building, this is one of those stories where things are rough but they grow and change
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-09-26 17:40:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20393587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hcope/pseuds/hcope
Summary: Minghao sighs. “I’m not afraid, Jihoon,” he says quietly, his tone suggesting that he is talking about more than the hunt. “I don’t want to live my life afraid, and I don’t think you do either.”“But I do want you to live,” Jihoon rebuts him. “I –”I don’t know what I would do without you.I don’t want to live if you aren’t with me.I can’t stand the thought of losing you, I need you, I want you, I lo–“I don’t want you to get hurt.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is intended in roughly the same spirit as Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter.
> 
> Basically, this is fiction. A portion of fandom tends to blur the line between actual, real people/celebrity personas and fictionalized versions of those personas that might be employed in storytelling. I want to, for the purpose of my stories, un-blur that line. I am not writing about real people; I am writing about fictional characters whose personalities are inferred from public personas and, yes, borrow the names and likenesses of real people but are fictional characters all the same. Nothing here is meant to depict the actual idols of Seventeen (or any other group/individual) in any way. This work bears absolutely no intent to suggest that anything included herein is a representation of reality, even when elements of real world circumstances (“idol ‘verse” fics) and events are depicted. None of this is speculation or aspersion – it is merely a story.
> 
> If you create or consume art using the likenesses of real people, please don’t confuse the art with the actual, real person. Please respect the dignity and privacy of these idols in the real world. If you care about these people, maintain the separation of fanworks/fantasies and reality; it’s what allows us to let our imaginations run wild and creativity carry us away without being absolute dicks at the same time.
> 
> That being said, I hope you do enjoy the fic.
> 
> Warnings: This fic features unhealthy relationship dynamics that the main ship is very imperfectly working through, including manipulation, control, secrecy, and codependence. There is also a fair bit of violence in the form of combat.
> 
> … Also some bad poetry (but not too much of it).

Jihoon does not fear the unnatural. He has built his life around the study of that which should not be possible, dug his way down into the cracks in reality where decent people dare not glance, much less tread. Everyone knows about the maegi, everyone benefits from the things they do, but no one likes to think about it much. No one likes to think about how strange and abnormal their lives are, how far from the Pantheon of Midsummer they stray. Jihoon doesn’t care. Since he was nine, he has studied the arcane and the profane, has lined his bed with incantations and laid in it, and there is little these days that can shock him.

There is little that can shake him – but this strains even his conscience.

Not that he will let it stop him.

“More embers,” he directs Junhui, not bothering to watch him scurry off to the metal buckets lining the wall, knowing Junhui is as eager to see this done as Jihoon himself is.

This spell requires more reagents than anything Jihoon has ever seen, much less attempted to cast. The incantation is complicated, spanning three dead tongues, and the sigils he has carved with painstaking perfection into his floor took hours to complete. He is glad he won’t be doing this spell alone; he cannot afford to have anything go wrong, and he trusts his own skills greatly but not enough for this. For this, nothing can go amiss; there can be no missteps, no blunders or forgetfulness. Jihoon is but an apprentice, in the grand scheme of things, and for this he needs a master.

“Is he here yet?” he demands, glancing at Joshua over his shoulder.

Joshua, posted by the open door, shakes his head, keeping his eyes on the road outside. “No sign. He said we couldn’t start until midnight; we have time.”

“Not much,” Jihoon mutters. He turns back, running a hand lightly through Minghao’s hair, smoothing it away from his face. In his sleep, Minghao shifts and shivers fitfully. His fever is rising. That’s good: Hansol said the potion he brought yesterday should raise his temperature, that they need to in order to prevent this ritual from killing him outright. It still makes Jihoon nervous.

On his pallet of charred wood and wildfiere leaf, Minghao lies like an offering, the sight chafing against everything within Jihoon, making him want to steal Minghao away and hide, hide from all of this madness, but he can’t. If he wants Minghao to live, they must do this.

If Minghao dies, Jihoon knows he will not survive the night either.

Minghao’s breathing is low and labored, his chest barely moving beneath the thin sheet draped over him. In the flickering light of the dozens of candles around him, arrayed on the floor in an intricate pattern, his skin is ashen, looking almost dead already. Jihoon presses a hand to his cheek, running his thumb across Minghao’s lips to feel his next breath leave him. It does, but it’s faint. The pad of his thumb catches on Minghao’s lower lip as he goes to pull away, and he reaches for the pot of beeswax and oil at his hip. Minghao’s lips are cracked, badly chapped despite Jihoon’s efforts; he has been rubbing beeswax onto them every ten minutes or so, soothing them every time he brings Minghao a drink of water, taking the task on himself since Minghao stopped responding to him some hours ago. It does little to help. Nothing helps. Now, with the heat rising around and within Minghao, matting the hair on his forehead into sweaty tangles, it has only gotten worse.

Junhui returns, crouching on the floor beside him and banking the coals around Minghao with cinders that glow blue and preternaturally hot. He is focused, his brow furrowed, but his eyes stray to Minghao’s face repeatedly as he works.

Jihoon would comfort him, offer some words of reassurance, but he has none. This might not work. Minghao might be dead ere sunrise. There will be no comfort for any of them then.

“Jihoon,” Mingyu says, a warning, just before Minghao’s eyes fly open and he pitches to the side, coughing roughly.

Jihoon lurches forward, grabbing him and wrapping an arm around his shoulders, holding him up as Minghao heaves. He presses himself against Minghao’s back, whispering nonsense into his ear, stroking his hair with his free hand. He ignores Junhui, calling out something to Joshua, and Joshua’s reply. He ignores Mingyu’s agitated hands, never quite landing on Minghao’s flushed skin. He ignores them all, willfully blocking out everything that is not Minghao and his ragged breathing and the way he trembles in Jihoon’s hold.

It’s a long one this time, the tremors rocking Minghao’s body for nearly a minute before the heaving starts in earnest, the strength of them forcing Minghao to fall forward, his forehead pressed into the pallet as he curls into himself, hands clutching uselessly at his throat.

Jihoon stays with him, keeping a steady pressure at his back, knowing the pain gets overwhelming in the final moments of an attack. When Minghao’s hands stray, scrabbling against the bedding, Jihoon pulls them back, herding them away from the hot coals around him. When this is over, if Minghao survives, Jihoon does not want him to have to deal with burned fingers too.

Minghao shudders, and Jihoon releases his hands to be ready at his mouth. He thumbs Minghao’s lips open, still murmuring petty reassurances, interspersing them with quick kisses to the back of his sweaty neck, and waits.

It doesn’t take much longer.

The shudders intensify, Minghao’s entire body spasming, and in seconds Jihoon feels the first petals brush against his fingertips. He moves quickly, knowing it’s worse to wait even though this part makes him feel cruel. He shoves his hand into Minghao’s mouth, grabbing as much of the bloom as he can, and jerks, tearing off a handful of pink and red petals – pink carnations, red with blood. He goes in again immediately, and this time he manages to seize the center of it, wrapping his fingers firmly around it.

When he pulls, the entirety of the plant follows, long stem dragging up out of Minghao’s throat with a harsh choking sound, emerging with a spray of blood that stains the white sheet sickeningly red.

There are three more after that – only three, thank the gods Jihoon has forsaken – and Jihoon throws them into the far corner with as much violence as he can muster, the way their petals cascade to the floor nowhere near satisfying the anger inside of him.

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” he says, keeping his voice low, trying and failing to keep the tremble out of it, speaking the words into Minghao’s hair as he eases him back down to lie as comfortably as he can. “You did it, you got them out,” he reassures, perhaps more for his own sake than for Minghao’s as Minghao slips swiftly back into unconsciousness. “You’re okay, you’re safe now, we got them out, you’re okay.”

“Jihoon,” Joshua says.

“Not now,” Jihoon snaps at him, petting at Minghao’s hair with shaking hands. He closes his eyes, trying to center himself. Every time, he’s afraid he won’t be fast enough, that Minghao will choke to death in his arms. Every time, he feels his heart stutter and stop after the last flower, waiting to see if this time was one time too many for Minghao’s fragile body, if this time the magic tore something vital that Jihoon cannot even see to fix and he will have to watch the light fade from Minghao’s eyes as his life leaves him. Every time, Jihoon is afraid, so afraid, and every time he has been spared. They can only have so many chances left.

“Jihoon,” Joshua says again, more sharply. “He’s here.”

Jihoon’s head jerks up, his attention immediately on Joshua. Joshua is still gazing out at the road, and he steps out in the next moment, no doubt going to meet the priest. Across Minghao’s pallet, Mingyu shifts restlessly.

“Do you think Seungcheol can save him?” he asks, sounding unsure. “That last attack was pretty bad.”

“He will,” Jihoon says firmly. “He has to.”

Jihoon can’t live without Minghao. If Seungcheol cannot save him, then –

Then –

Jihoon’s fingers twitch and tighten their grip around Minghao’s wrist.

He has not even had a chance to tell him _anything_ yet, any of what Jihoon carries around inside. Minghao has no idea about any of it. Surely the gods cannot be that cruel, can they? Even if they are angry that Jihoon and Minghao both have turned their backs on them, surely they will not punish them both in this way. Surely there is mercy, even for the heathens.

Surely Jihoon will not be made to lose everything all over again.

“Where is he?” someone asks, drawing Jihoon’s attention to the door. It is hard to see details in the wavering light, with the moon pouring in full and bright behind the stranger and casting his face into shadow, but Jihoon can make out dark hair and a firm mouth, expression held rigid as he strides forward. Following close behind him, Hansol is carrying a leather sack, its sides shifting ominously with whatever fell and arcane things a priest might need for such a ritual.

Joshua catches Jihoon’s eye and nods at the door, ducking back outside as soon as Jihoon returns his nod. He will keep watch, just in case anyone in the village has caught wind of what they are doing and takes exception to it. Just in case there is any trouble; that is what Junhui and Mingyu are here for, after all.

“You should wait outside with Joshua,” Jihoon says to them both, glancing first at Junhui and then at Mingyu. “Just in case.”

Mingyu stands at once, lingering only long enough to pat at Jihoon’s shoulder in a well-meaning but pointless reassurance. Junhui, however, glares at Jihoon, expression set.

“He is mine too,” he protests, voice hard.

“You are not a maege,” Jihoon points out, struggling to keep his tone even. They have had this conversation before. Junhui will be useless once the ritual is begun, and they cannot afford any distractions.

“I am his _brother_,” Junhui snaps. “I have more right to be here than you do.”

“Brothers?” Seungcheol says, glancing up from the misshapen leather bag. “A blood relative would be very helpful, actually, if you don’t mind a bit of pain.”

“They’re not related,” Jihoon informs him. He knows that the blood of a relative would be useful here, that it might help to stabilize Minghao if things go as wrong as they might. Junhui cannot help them with that, though.

“I raised him,” Junhui says, still arguing, shifting closer to wrap a hand around Minghao’s wrist, ignoring Jihoon to make his case to Seungcheol.

Seungcheol, fortunately, is unmoved.

“You will only be a distraction,” he says, shaking his head.

He hands a jar of something to Hansol, who opens it and begins sprinkling the dark substance over the coals around Minghao. Then, with an efficient tug, he removes the soiled sheet and spreads the substance over Minghao’s body as well, rubbing it into his skin with practiced motions. As soon as he is done he begins running his fingers along Jihoon’s etchings in the floor, checking his work; Jihoon would be offended in any other circumstances, but here, he is grateful.

Seungcheol puts a hand on Junhui’s arm, his expression firm but sympathetic. “We need to keep the room as clean as possible,” he says, almost gently. “If you want to help, you can move those excess reagents outside before you go.”

Junhui is clearly unhappy, his expression pinched, but he nods. He understands the importance of doing this the right way, of giving themselves every possible chance of success; he understands better than almost anyone. Seungcheol’s hand falls away, the healer going back to his satchel, and Junhui looks down at Minghao. He blinks heavily several times, his lips drawing in and losing color as he bites down on them. Then, slowly, he leans forward and touches his forehead against Minghao’s.

Jihoon looks away. He doesn’t let himself listen in on whatever Junhui whispers then, respecting what little privacy he has in what might be his final moments with his brother.

When he is done, Junhui stands. His hand reaches towards Jihoon, and Jihoon clasps it in his own, squeezing firmly for a moment but still looking down, not quite brave enough to meet Junhui’s eyes, before Junhui releases him and turns to go. He moves the excess reagents outside quickly and efficiently, and then he’s gone, and Jihoon is left alone with Minghao’s unresponsive body and the strangers who are supposed to save him.

“It might have been kinder to let him stay,” Hansol says quietly. “If his brother doesn’t live.”

“There is nothing kind about watching your brother die,” Jihoon bites out, glaring at him. He knows firsthand, and he would never wish that on Junhui, or even on someone he loves much less. That is precisely why he insisted that Junhui could not stay; it is safer, cleaner, a better bet, yes, for Minghao’s survival, but Jihoon sent Junhui away just as much for his own benefit as for Minghao’s. If Minghao dies, Jihoon does not want Junhui’s final moments with him to be spent watching him scream in agony as the magic tears through him, having to stare, helpless, as his brother’s life is sapped away and the person he loves is turned into a corpse.

Jihoon barely survived watching Seungkwan die; he doesn’t know how or if he will survive the same with Minghao, if it comes to that, but he will protect Junhui from this. It is all he _can_ do.

“It’s midnight,” Hansol says suddenly, his gaze fixed on the open window and the moon beyond it.

Seungcheol nods. “We have our tools ready,” he says, moving closer to lean over Minghao, willow bark and cold iron wrapped about his hand. “Now is the time, bard, if you have a song for us.”

Jihoon does have a song prepared. It is something he meant to sing for Minghao under very different circumstances, but it suits this moment as well as any other.

The healer and his assistant begin working their magic, a dull hum rising in the air as Seungcheol starts up a chant, the words thick and liquid around them, and the other two busy themselves as well, nimble hands stoking the embers under Minghao into a proper fire even as they pour prepared mixtures over his hands and heart.

Jihoon watches them, finding the rhythm of their interplay, slotting himself into the song of the ritual as he closes his eyes and lifts his voice in song, in prayer, in desperation.

More than he has ever meant it before, he sings, striving to sing his magic to life, to wrap around Minghao and hold him close as they call on the spirits of fire and death to save him.

~~~

_Stray, stray, stray as you like_

_Stay, stay, stay as you can_

_Your heart is a river, my heart is the sea_

_Stray, stray, stray if you must –_

_But stray, stray, stray unto me_

~~~

When the screaming ends, Minghao does not wake.

When the birds pick up their collective aubade, Minghao does not wake.

When Jihoon drips water past his cracked lips, runs his fingers through the fringes of his hair, drags cool cloths across his fevered skin, is not fast enough to catch his tears before they land as tiny pools in the dips of Minghao’s cheeks and collarbones, Minghao does not wake.

He does not wake and he does not wake and he does not wake, and Jihoon can find little comfort in the rise and fall of his chest when with his ear pressed to skin he can hear the crackle of flames within, when heat like a fever no one has ever survived rages through his body, when his eyes dart restlessly, as if fueled by nightmares, beneath his closed lids.

Minghao does not wake and Jihoon does not sleep and the full moon wanes another two nights lesser as Minghao’s eyes remain closed, closed, closed.

And then, just as they had all but given up hope, they open.

~~~

“Jihoon,” Minghao mumbles, his words sleep-slurred and lazy. “Jihoon, you’re crushing me.”

Jihoon stirs, pressing closer against Minghao’s chest, his hands clawing faintly at Minghao’s shirt. Minghao is so warm, and his arms come up to encircle Jihoon so naturally, pulling him closer despite his own protests. Jihoon smiles.

Then he stills.

“Jihoon?” Minghao asks, noting his sudden motionlessness, no doubt, and sounding abruptly more alert. “Are you alright?”

Frantic, Jihoon scrambles to his knees, pulling away from Minghao to stare down at him. His eyes must be so wide, his expression probably manic. He feels manic.

Minghao is awake.

“Thank the gods,” Jihoon mutters, shaking hands coming up to cradle Minghao’s face just before he pitches forward, wrapping the entirety of his body around Minghao.

He is warm, unnaturally so, but he feels _right_ in Jihoon’s arms and he is _alive_, and that is more than Jihoon had dared to hope too loudly for. He is alive and awake and nothing else matters, all else can be sorted out later, because this is all Jihoon needs.

Minghao holds him as well, though his grip is nowhere near as desperate as Jihoon’s. His skin is slick and sweaty, in spite of Jihoon’s attempts to keep him clean and dry, and his bare arms slide against Jihoon’s back where his shirt has ridden up.

“Jihoon?” Minghao asks again, sounding worried.

Jihoon does not want him to be in distress – never wants Minghao to be in distress again – so he pulls back, reluctantly, keeping both hands on Minghao, one in his hair and one on his chest, fingers curled into the fabric over his heart.

He is grinning like an idiot, he knows it, and he doesn’t care to stop. He feels lighter than air, lighter than song.

“You’re alive,” he whispers, the words colored with trembling joy, relief so powerful it makes him blink tears back washing over him as the words make it real, the way words always do for him. “Gods, you’re alive.” He wants to press close, again, but he restrains himself. Minghao is probably sore, after –

Well. There is no kind way to rip someone’s magic out of their chest and replace it with another’s, and Jihoon saw firsthand exactly how brutal the process can be. They should all be very careful with Minghao for the next few weeks … maybe the next few months.

“So you did it,” Minghao says, staring up at him with an expression that is two parts awe and three parts something Jihoon never lets himself name. “I knew you would.”

“I thought I might not be able to,” Jihoon admits, a weight lifting from deep inside his chest at the confession. He laughs, the lightness he feels intensifying. “We almost – we –” He has to swallow past the sudden rush of contradicting emotion that makes itself known over the joy and relief.

Minghao shakes his head, his hands coming up, moving for the first time in days, to take Jihoon’s hands, one in each of his, and smiles at him. “I trusted you,” he says, so earnestly, staring up with that same expression. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”

“I –” Jihoon does not know how he would have finished that thought, is overwhelmed and shaky with everything he’s feeling right now, and so he is relieved when he is saved from speaking by the door opening to admit Junhui and Joshua, both of them freezing in place when they see that Minghao’s eyes are open.

“Minghao, thank the gods,” Joshua breathes, his eyes slipping closed in what must be a brief prayer.

Junhui wastes no time on pointless gratitude. In the seconds it takes Jihoon to blink, he is at Minghao’s side, muscling his way in next to Jihoon and stealing one of Minghao’s hands for himself, pressing kisses to the back of it.

Minghao laughs, the sound only slightly marred by the roughness of his throat, and he smiles at them all.

Jihoon vows never to take that smile for granted again.

~~~

Less than an hour later, Jihoon is filled with far fewer happy emotions as he watches the play of joy on Minghao’s face.

“Let him have his fun,” Joshua says, slouched against the tree at Jihoon’s back, his legs sprawled out on the ground in front of him. “It isn’t every day you get a whole new brand of magic to experiment with.”

“He should be in bed – _resting_,” Jihoon mutters unhappily, scowling as Minghao laughs with his new mentor, the two of them throwing themselves around the field like overeager colts, stumbling and shouting to each other excitedly.

“It won’t kill him,” Junhui says, lounging in Joshua’s lap. His eyes are closed against the sun, but every time Minghao laughs, his mouth twitches upward. “Seungcheol said he’s fine now, that the magic has settled and it shouldn’t give him any trouble.”

“What does Seungcheol know?” Jihoon bites out. “He admitted himself that he has never succeeded in a spell like this one before. Minghao should let his body recover.”

“I think that’s what it was doing for the two days he was unconscious,” Joshua remarks smartly.

“Lighten up, Hoonie,” Junhui says, the words almost a singsong. His attitude has been obnoxiously jovial since Minghao woke up; it’s as though Jihoon is the only one who has any conception at all of how close Minghao came to the grave.

“You should be more concerned about him, Junhui,” Jihoon says sharply. “He’s _your_ brother.”

“Where’s yours?” Joshua asks, not giving Junhui a chance to make a dig back – not that he would have, in all likelihood; he probably would have just laughed at Jihoon, or made some other kind of … comment, the sort Jihoon has not had directed at him in a while but which are now certain to come flooding back into his daily life.

Jihoon looks away, struggling to maintain his frown at the mention of Seungkwan. “He should be by any time now,” he says, his tone lightening despite himself. “Mingyu is going to walk him over once the caravan arrives.”

“Remind me, are the two of them –?” Junhui makes a vague gesture that doesn’t imply anything and somehow still manages to come across as indefinably dirty. Jihoon rolls his eyes, not bothering to give him a more full response. Junhui hums. “I see. So it’s just you and Minghao then?”

Jihoon pushes away from the tree forcefully, glaring over his shoulder at Junhui and Joshua both as he walks away.

“Oh, come back,” Junhui calls, very half-heartedly, one hand lifting as if to beseech Jihoon to stay but then quickly falling back to Joshua’s inner thigh as he laughs.

Joshua laughs with him, both his hands in Junhui’s hair, his boyfriend preening beneath his touch like a satisfied cat.

Screw them both. If Jihoon is the only one concerned with Minghao’s wellbeing, then he will see to it himself.

As he gets closer to where Minghao and the fire maege Mingyu knew from somewhere are practicing with Minghao’s new skillset, he can see that Minghao is, as he was with his earth-based affinity, a natural.

The way he moves is like nothing Jihoon has ever seen – it always has been. Every line of him is perfect, long-limbed even down to his fingers, arcing gracefully beneath the heavy sunlight, twisting his body fluidly from one shape to another. His instructor demonstrates a move and, in the next breath, Minghao copies him, blue fire trailing his fingertips as his arm comes up over his head and then around to his back just as he spins, tight and sharp, to face Jihoon, palms outstretched. Small flames lick at his skin but never leave him, never go anywhere he doesn’t want them to.

He’s beautiful. In every way Jihoon has ever admired anyone, Minghao is beautiful, and watching him makes Jihoon’s heart ache.

Minghao catches sight of him then, his face lighting up when he does. He says something to the fire maege – the other fire maege, Jihoon supposes, now; now that Minghao’s magic is fire-based and ever will be – and then turns back to grin at Jihoon, waving his fingers around each other in a complicated little dance and then fanning them open.

At first, all Jihoon sees is a flash of blue light. Then it comes closer, and the exact nature of Minghao’s trick becomes apparent.

It is a trail of stars, delicate and no bigger than Jihoon’s smallest fingernail, dancing around each other like waves upon the sea, chasing closer and closer to Jihoon until they arrive to circle him, twisting and spinning around his unknowingly outstretched hand. The heat they radiate is intense, but Jihoon knows they won’t burn him; Minghao would never let him come to harm, and these are Minghao’s flames. He can see now that they are not just blue, either – they are also gold at the edges, and white at the centers, and occasionally they flicker vibrantly red.

Jihoon lifts his hand higher, mesmerized as the stars follow him, maintaining their distance but tracking his hand as he waves it from side to side, the fire-stars seeming to swell and sparkle when they catch the sunlight.

“Do you like them?” Minghao asks, suddenly quite close to Jihoon.

Jihoon looks up to find him only a few paces away, the distance closing rapidly as Minghao approaches him. His smile is far more dazzling than the stars.

“It’s a very neat trick,” he allows, a grin tugging at his mouth. “You’re a fast learner.”

“Soonyoung is a good teacher,” Minghao says graciously. “He’s very passionate, but I like that. I’m glad Mingyu knew someone who could teach me so much and who isn’t afraid to push me.”

“He isn’t pushing you too much,” Jihoon says, a dark edge creeping into his good mood.

“I’m fine, Jihoon, really,” Minghao says, sounding a bit exasperated. He runs a hand through his hair, the fire-stars vanishing as his concentration breaks. “I told you I feel completely well.”

“You have been known to _push _yourself when you shouldn’t, Hao,” Jihoon points out – fairly, since Minghao’s lack of concern for his own wellbeing is thoroughly documented by more than Jihoon. “You need to rest.”

“I need to be ready for the hunt next week,” Minghao says, shaking his head, seemingly oblivious to the way the words make Jihoon’s stomach flip and twist with fear.

“Hao,” he says, slowly, carefully, “you can’t intend to go through with the hunt now.”

Minghao’s expression shutters, stubbornness kicking in.

“Minghao,” Jihoon tries again, feeling his anxiety mount, “you _can’t_. You almost died, you –”

“But I didn’t,” Minghao interrupts, saying it like this is some enormous point in favor of his argument. “I lived, and now I have a second chance – at all kinds of things.” He hesitates, his eyes meeting Jihoon’s for a moment. There is a great weight there, in his gaze, and a question, one Jihoon has been afraid to ask or answer for a long time now.

He looks away, playing the coward because someone has to.

Minghao sighs. “I’m not afraid, Jihoon,” he says quietly, his tone suggesting that he is talking about more than the hunt. “I don’t want to live my life afraid, and I don’t think you do either.”

“But I do want you to _live_,” Jihoon rebuts him. “I –”

I don’t know what I would do without you.

I don’t want to live if you aren’t with me.

I can’t stand the thought of losing you, I need you, I want you, I lo–

“I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I know that,” Minghao says, soft. He takes a step closer, their hands almost brushing now – they would be brushing if Jihoon lifted his hand just that much, leaned in, stepped forward.

He steps back.

Something sour rises in the back of his mouth at the look on Minghao’s face, the resignation there, but he swallows it down. It’s better this way.

“I’m going on a test run with Jeonghan and the others tomorrow,” Minghao says, his tone neutral, his expression even more so. “I’ll be careful, but I won’t act like I died when I didn’t.”

“I just wish you wouldn’t take such unnecessary risks,” Jihoon says, trying to push through how reasonable he’s being in his tone, knowing Minghao won’t hear him. This has been a point of contention in their friendship for years now; Minghao takes risks, and Jihoon doesn’t. It usually doesn’t matter, Jihoon can usually turn a blind eye long enough for Minghao to get whatever it is out of his system, but usually Minghao hasn’t just had a near-brush with death that has left him vulnerable by way of losing all his magic and being saddled with a brand new skillset he doesn’t fully understand.

Minghao, of course, disagrees with Jihoon’s assessment.

“It isn’t unnecessary,” he argues. “This dragon has been a menace to the county for years, and next week Haertheope will be over the equator and –”

“Yes, I know, I know why it has to be next week,” Jihoon says impatiently, ignoring the way Minghao’s expression grows stormy, “I just don’t know why it has to be _you_. Surely they can do it without you.”

“_You_ may have little faith in my abilities, Jihoon, but there are those who value them,” Minghao says coldly, what little light there was left in his eyes clouding over. “I won’t let my team down when we have all spent so long preparing for this.”

“I do value you, Minghao,” Jihoon says, trying to placate. He reaches out, touches Minghao’s arm.

Minghao flinches away. “You treat me like a child,” he says, not angrily, just … tiredly. He says it like he is exhausted by Jihoon’s very essence, all the fight draining out of him.

Jihoon looks away, holding himself very rigidly.

“I am not a child, Jihoon,” Minghao says, quietly. “And I am not Seungkwan. I’m not your responsibility and I am not someone you need to babysit.”

_I am not yours_, Jihoon hears, loud and clear. He knows that. But he cannot help himself.

“If you would be less reckless,” he says, the words strained, cut off by Minghao’s frustrated huff.

“And if you would be less cowardly,” he bites back. “Some of us want to live our lives, not just wait for them to pass.” He steps away, putting distance between them. Jihoon feels it keenly; he makes no move to stop it. “I am going tomorrow,” he says. “I hope you will see me off.”

It is a dismissal, and Jihoon has never liked to overstay his welcome.

He turns and walks away, unable to respond to Minghao’s request. He doesn’t know if he can stand to watch Minghao walk away, knowing he might not come back. He knows that Jeonghan is no fool, and the other members of Minghao’s team are not stupid either, but they are, on the whole, reckless. They have built their professional lives around throwing themselves in the path of danger for the benefit of others, and while Jihoon admires that, he wishes fiercely that Minghao had never met them.

He does not want to watch Minghao leave, but he also does not want to not be there to say goodbye. He doesn’t know what he wants – a familiar feeling where Minghao is concerned.

Or, rather, he knows exactly what he wants, but he knows equally how stupidly impetuous it would be to take it. So he won’t.

Jihoon has ever been a cautious man, and, despite Minghao’s opinions to the contrary, he knows it is the only thing that keeps him safe. He likes to be safe. He needs to be safe, needs to keep them all safe, and one day they will thank him. One day, Minghao will understand.

Until then, Jihoon will watch from a distance as Minghao smiles and laughs with others, knowing that the smile Minghao reserves for him is both less and more than that, that the smile Minghao reserves for him wanes by the day as Jihoon holds him apart, but he will know – which is far more important than smiles – he will _know_ that Minghao is _safe_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be complete, art needs to be seen, experienced, witnessed. So – thank you for reading my fic. I’d love it if you left a comment so I know you engaged with it, because that truly is the goal of every written work – to be engaged with – and it’s always wonderfully gratifying and vitalizing to get confirmation of that from the reader.


	2. Chapter 2

Jihoon didn’t sleep – he couldn’t, kept up by the knowledge that with the sunrise Minghao would be throwing himself needlessly into danger … again. It has been his pattern for as long as Jihoon has known him: Minghao sets his sights on something impossible, the impossible beats the hell out of him, and Minghao takes it and falls and gets back up to go in for more.

It’s stupid. He’s going to get himself killed, really killed, the kind no one can bring him back from, one of these days and he’s going to make Jihoon watch.

Jihoon won’t survive watching that – not again, not after Seungkwan.

So he doesn’t sleep. He stays up, writing a new spell, something that will keep Minghao as safe as he can be in the eye line of a dragon, since that is where he insists on standing. It takes him all night, candles burned low and parchment coating the floor in jagged strips where he tore off the parts that weren’t working and tossed them down. There is ink spilled across his desk, dark as blood in the night, and it stains his wrist like a wound.

He finishes just as the sky shifts to that shade of blue that is not yet daylight but heralds it, eyes red-rimmed and sore. There is no time to waste; Minghao and his team will be off by now, setting out for the rolling hills that have long been blasted lifeless, where they can hurt nothing but themselves when they train. Jihoon needs to catch them before they start – he likes Jeonghan and the others, but he does not trust them; they are all too much like Minghao, too ready to risk all of their lives in their mad pursuits. He needs to give Minghao this new spell before they start throwing magic at each other and Minghao, vulnerable now with his own magic stripped away and something foreign soldered into its place, is hurt.

On his way out, coat thrown on over yesterday’s clothes, he pauses just long enough to kiss Seungkwan’s forehead and fix his blanket more firmly around him before he is gone, mounting Kira bareback and tackless.

They make good time across the empty roads, no one out at this hour, and by the time the sun has risen enough to wash the morning robin’s egg blue, pale light creeping into all the hidden places of the woods and the small ravines to either side of the road, Jihoon arrives at the training grounds of what Minghao so affectionately calls the Thunderstep Crew.

All four of them are here, spread across the little valley, preparing themselves for the day’s work. Jihoon rides up to Minghao, who is alone by the stream that runs north-to-south through the gorge, crouched with his hands in the water.

“Minghao!” he calls, bringing Kira up alongside him and slowing her to a halt.

Minghao does not startle; he likely saw or heard Jihoon coming even before Jihoon entered the valley. Jihoon is not unaware of Minghao’s skill as a maege; he simply dislikes the way Minghao takes his skill as license to throw his life away.

“It’s a very fine morning, don’t you think?” Minghao says, looking up at Jihoon. His expression is peaceful, no doubt already mentally preparing himself to use his magic. The morning air, its slight breeze light and warm, lifts the hair around his face and tosses it about, creating a halo effect of the purest black – Jihoon’s own personal angel and demon both.

He dismounts, sending Kira off with a pat – she will return when called, he knows – and crouches beside Minghao, bending to splash some water on his own face. It’s refreshing, waking him up a little.

“You look awful,” Minghao says, a frown in his voice – and on his face, when Jihoon looks up at him. He reaches for Jihoon, shaking his sleeve over his wrist, and wipes at the water on Jihoon’s face around his eyes and upon his cheeks.

Jihoon lets him, caught by the intensity of Minghao’s focus as he tends to him, the gentle concern in his eyes. It’s heady, the way Minghao looks at him sometimes, in moments like this, and it always dumbfounds him, no matter how many times he has seen it before.

When Minghao is done, he lets his sleeve fall back down his arm, bunching around his elbow, and rests the palm of his hand against Jihoon’s forehead. His frown deepens. “Did you sleep at all?” he asks, a note of censure in his tone.

“I brought you this,” Jihoon says, dodging the question transparently. He reaches into the interior pocket of his coat and withdraws the spell, carefully rolled into a tight bundle and tied with green ribbon, the color Jihoon always uses for Minghao.

Minghao takes it, a smile spreading across his face. He tugs at the end of the ribbon and it comes undone easily, the length of it sliding to the ground between Minghao’s feet, dangling from between Minghao’s fingers. Before he even opens the spell, he pulls the ribbon into his hand, feeding it between his fingers to smooth it before looping it around his wrist and tying it neatly in a bow he triple knots. It makes Jihoon’s chest feel tight, as it always does, to see the casual way Minghao makes Jihoon a part of himself; he wears the ribbons Jihoon brings him on the outside, where everyone can see, in perfect counterpoint to the way he reads Jihoon’s words into his very being to turn into magic.

When Minghao unspools the parchment of Jihoon’s newest spell, Jihoon cannot help but fidget. The spell is good, he knows it is, but every time he presents his work to Minghao he feels like a true apprentice all over again, barely sixteen and desperate.

“This is beautiful, Jihoon,” Minghao says, awe in his voice. “How did you do this in one day? Or – was this not for me, originally? Before my magic changed?”

“No, it’s for you,” Jihoon assures him. It’s always for Minghao, everything Jihoon makes, even if he sells it to others to pay the bills. “I wrote it last night.”

“Instead of sleeping,” Minghao says, more teasing than chiding. He looks down at the spell again, his lips tracing the words, mesmerized by Jihoon’s work as Jihoon is mesmerized by the sight of him.

This is what happens when Jihoon doesn’t sleep – he gets sentimental and stupid. He blinks and forces himself to look away, staring over at where the group’s dagger master is practicing some kind of martial art, half obscured by the dirt he kicks up with his quick movements.

He is not nearly as graceful as Minghao. Jihoon knows he is biased, but he is still fairly certain his assessment is true. The shadowsmith’s motions are powerful, and not without grace, but no one moves the way Minghao does.

“I should study this in earnest,” Minghao says, drawing Jihoon’s attention back to him. He rolls up the parchment and stands, offering a hand to Jihoon, which Jihoon takes. His skin is warm and slightly damp from the river, his sleeve clinging wetly to him; there are certainly less unpleasant things in the world. “Why don’t you go say hello to the others? They’d love to see you.”

“I don’t know them, Minghao,” Jihoon says, shaking his head. “But I may find a place to sit so I can watch you, if you don’t mind. I want to make sure there are no problems with the spell.”

“The only place with shade where you’ll still have a view is over by Wonwoo,” Minghao says, gesturing to his team’s fourth member, who is elevated slightly where the valley begins to roll up into the surrounding hills.

Jihoon nods. He doubts Wonwoo will attempt to talk to him; he looks busy. He tells Minghao to come get him if he has any questions about the spell and then makes his way up the side of the valley, over to a small copse of trees that stands where the stream curves, arcing away from the mountains farther north, eyeing Wonwoo but keeping his head down.

He has no sooner settled into the tall grass and yellow-flowered weeds, his gaze tracking Minghao where he sits by the water, than a shadow falls across him. He looks up and finds Wonwoo standing hardly half a dozen paces away, blocking the sunlight most effectively with the enormous pauldrons encasing his shoulders. Jihoon stares at him, and Wonwoo stares back, his expression decidedly unimpressed, the silence holding for several long moments before Wonwoo speaks.

“Are you Jihoon, then?” he asks, his voice fairly deep and strangely commanding. Jihoon wonders if he was in the army before he became … whatever Minghao and his friends consider themselves.

Jihoon inclines his head. “I am,” he says, guardedly. “And you are?” he adds, though he already knows. It’s only fair that Wonwoo be forced to introduce himself as well.

“Wonwoo Stormcaller,” Wonwoo says. “A friend of Minghao’s.”

“As am I,” Jihoon says, a bit sharply.

Wonwoo smiles, the expression making him look, abruptly, much younger and kinder. “I know,” he says. “We’ve heard a lot about you.”

Jihoon is not certain if he should be glad that Minghao speaks of him or uneasy about what Minghao might have said. He does not like strangers knowing things about him, something Minghao well knows, which makes him wonder what, exactly, Minghao has told these people.

Without waiting for Jihoon’s response, Wonwoo steps forward and comes to sit beside Jihoon in the shade of the trees, bracing himself – with a surprising lack of metallic clanking or groaning – against the tree to Jihoon’s left. His armor is impressive, silver-and-black metal giving way to dark leather in places for greater mobility but all of it declaring itself quite firmly as the vestments of a soldier.

“Wonwoo, who’s your friend?” a new voice calls, just before the dagger master appears from the shade behind Jihoon.

Jihoon does not jump, but it is a very near thing.

The shadowsmith seems to know this; his grin is wide, but not malicious. He looks young, younger than Seungkwan even, and Jihoon supposes mischievousness often goes hand-in-hand with youth.

“Jihoon,” he says, smoothly, angling his head slightly to keep the boy in his line of sight.

“Lee Chan,” the shadowsmith says, “the dancer.” He offers Jihoon a linen-wrapped hand. Jihoon shakes it, and Chan’s grin widens, leaving Jihoon feeling distinctly uneasy, especially when Chan withdraws his hand and slips it immediately into his pocket.

Jihoon wasn’t wearing any jewelry today, but he still has to fight the compulsion to check for the safety of his pocket watch.

“Chan,” Wonwoo says, the word reprimanding on its surface but doing a poor job of covering up his amusement.

Jihoon’s suspicion rackets up another few notches, but, before he has a chance to question Chan’s cheeky smile, Jeonghan joins them, his many talismans and charms clinking to announce his arrival.

“Look who it is,” he says, doing nothing at all to ease Jihoon’s tension as he regards the scene slyly. Jeonghan is quite possibly the least trustworthy person Jihoon has ever met, and he has no idea why Minghao continues to associate with him – or, indeed, with any of them, if these are the kind of people they are.

“Jeonghan,” Jihoon greets. “I came to bring Minghao a new spell.”

“Oh, good,” Chan says, sounding genuinely glad to hear it. “With his new magic, we’re all a bit worried about the hunt.”

“It isn’t as though we can put it off, though,” Wonwoo says, which makes Chan and Jeonghan both nod.

“You could do it without him, though,” Jihoon suggests. He glances in Minghao’s direction, tamping down on the faint stirring of guilt he feels. “Minghao is not in full possession of his abilities anymore, and you cannot afford the liability. Surely it would be better to –”

“We can’t do it without Minghao, and we won’t try,” Jeonghan says, cutting Jihoon off firmly. “And Minghao says otherwise to your account – he said Soonyoung was very helpful and he’s ready to fight beside us. Today is just a precaution, to ease everybody’s minds and make certain our teamwork is up to snuff now that Minghao is slinging fire instead of dirt.”

Jihoon looks away, annoyed by Wonwoo and Chan’s twin nods to either side of him. Minghao is risking his life with this hunt – he always was, but now he has crossed the line from foolish heroics into outright madness, going in unprepared and off-kilter with magic he does not fully understand. Of course his teammates are on his side, though; they are all cut from the same cloth, clearly, every one of them as foolhardy as Minghao himself.

“I think we’re ready to begin,” Jeonghan says, gesturing to where Minghao has stood up, fussing with something at his waist – tucking the spell away, Jihoon guesses. “Wonwoo, Chan. Jihoon, nice to see you, as always.”

“Likewise, Jeonghan,” Jihoon says, perfectly politely, which makes Jeonghan smile; he knows full well how Jihoon feels about Minghao’s activities, and, by extension, Jeonghan and the rest of them.

The three of them leave Jihoon under the trees and join Minghao in the center of the valley, where he has taken up position. Jihoon leans forward, elbows propped on his knees as he watches, one hand across his mouth and the other digging restlessly into the dirt.

He hopes his spell does what it should. Normally, he wouldn’t give a spell to Minghao until he has had time to go over it again and again – and again and again and again and again – to be certain, completely certain, that it is safe. Today, though, he did not have the time. He wrote it, finalized it with a solidifying spell using sand and glass, and delivered it immediately into Minghao’s hands.

If it does not work, he –

He closes his eyes, briefly, and shakes his head.

It will work. And if, somehow, something does go wrong, Jihoon will be here to protect him, to keep him safe.

Minghao and the others fan out into a loose diamond, Jeonghan and Wonwoo holding close on the sides while Chan takes point, slightly arther out, and Minghao hangs back. With their positions established, they move forward, every step synchronized, one entity sliding across the barren ground, closer and closer to the largest of the hills, the one closest to the looming mountains, where Jihoon now notices a large, unassuming burrow.

He did not know what, exactly, Minghao meant by a “test run” when he said it yesterday, but in the next few moments he finds out.

Chan darts forward, and now Jihoon sees the grace he did not before, quick and fluid as a current, and slips into the cave. He is only out of sight for a matter of seconds, each of them hanging heavy as the other three fighters hold their ground and Jihoon holds his breath, and then he returns, his footsteps even quicker now and Jihoon soon finds out why when the ground splits open with a shriek and from out of the ground bursts a grotesque, writhing worm.

The creature is gray and oily, its skin shining in the sun as its eyeless head whips back and forth, seeking the thing that woke it. Chan moves beneath it, dodging the long tendrils that lash out to catch him, keeping its focus on him with small strikes and sure-footed distraction while the other three begin their own barrages.

Wonwoo lifts one hand skyward, the heavens darkening in response. Jihoon scrambles to his knees, uneasy as the air suddenly reeks of ozone and the clouds press down, suffocating the scene. Rain pelts down, Jihoon can see it, but none of it reaches him – he is not even sure it is rain, as he watches it hit the creature, which screams and bucks beneath the deluge, drawing half back into its den before lunging out again, its attention fixated on Wonwoo.

Chan distracts it, but only for a moment, as Wonwoo moves around Jeonghan, drawing his shield from his back and angling it up, shouting an incantation, then shoving a wall of white light that crashes down upon him forward, towards the beast, unleashing a wail of agony but otherwise seeming to have no effect.

Jeonghan is weaving spellwork too, his hands blurs of lavender satin as he builds a web of light around himself, glowing brighter and brighter until Jihoon cannot bear to look at it. It is only when he looses the light that Jihoon knows what he is, what form of magic he is dealing; only celestial warriors cast like that. The violet web crackles, deafening, through the air and wraps itself around the worm, and when it touches the creature, there is silence. No more shrieks or cries are heard, the only sounds the hissing of Jeonghan’s spell and Wonwoo’s mumbled chanting. As the spell takes hold, Jeonghan moves forward, building to a run, and launches himself at the creature, a longsword in his hand that was not there before – immaterial or invisible, Jihoon does not know – and drives it into the creature’s skull – or, what should be its skull.

The blow does little, the worm’s jaws parted in a soundless scream as it bucks, trying to throw Jeonghan off. When it fails, it lurches out of its burrow completely, revealing its full form, long and grisly, folds of skin and protracted tendrils propelling it along as it seeks escape.

Through all of this, Minghao has remained at the rear of the group. The battle so far has lasted less than a full minute, and Minghao has not been idle – around him, globes of light spin, each burning golden like a miniature sun, and now, as Jeonghan furiously clings to his weapon where it is lodged in the beast’s head and Wonwoo and Chan both chase it, striking blows where they can but making no impact, Minghao releases his spell.

Jihoon’s spell, the one he made for Minghao, of Minghao, to keep Minghao safe on the battlefield – it builds like a symphony, to a climax no orchestra could conceive of, golden fire turning white and blue as Minghao drives it forward, his voice ringing across the valley, as much a part of the magic as the flames he commands.

With the words, the fire rises high into the air, almost twinkling out of existence in Jihoon’s straining eyes, lost in the light of the sun, and then it falls, cascading down upon the creature, burning holes in its flesh – a rain of stars.

Jeonghan’s spell breaks, his sword coming free as the beast throws itself over, dropping to its side and rolling, thrashing, across the dirt. Jeonghan is sent flying to the side, flung to safety and quickly regaining his feet. He shouts something to Minghao, a laugh rising on the air, and Minghao responds.

Then the creature turns, its front half lifting up, a great cry rending the morning like nothing it has loosed before. The sound is unnatural, guttural and piercing, like metal on metal or a mountain breaking, and as it shrieks it lunges forward, towards Minghao, and Jihoon’s heart stops.

But the spell holds; it does what Jihoon built it to do.

When the creature nears Minghao, still twenty feet off, the fire around Minghao, a second wave of suns, pulls in, crowding itself into a protective wall between him and the beast, and, when the thing strikes it, Minghao is thrown back, away, down to the ground and pinned there as the magic wraps around him, holding him safe.

Jihoon can see Minghao thrashing in the magic’s hold, his hands striking out at the flames, but they do not burn him and they do not move – Jihoon would not allow for either. As long as the creature is this close to him, the spell will protect him. The barrier Jihoon has woven into his words is impenetrable, it cannot be breached from either side; it was the only way to ensure that it could not be destroyed.

While Jihoon was distracted, Chan has caught up to the worm, and he throws himself at it, reckless and wild, a scream dragged from his throat, incomprehensible and rough. He diverts the worm’s attention long enough for Jeonghan to fire another spell at it, this one a long tendril of indigo light that tangles itself with the creature’s many limbs and pulls it off-balance, onto its side.

Wonwoo joins them, storm clouds shadowing him and pressing down over the creature, lightning darting out to strike it. The creature howls. Wonwoo’s voice rises above it, deep and rumbling, and thunder follows, its deafening crack tearing a yawning gash into the beast’s side.

As the others draw the creature away, the spell holding Minghao down eases back, allowing him to stand, retreating to a defensive wall once more.

Then it vanishes.

Jihoon jerks to his feet, eyes wide, terrified that something has happened to Minghao, but Minghao seems unharmed, standing tall and firm, his shoulders back and chin lifted. He seems uninjured, so Jihoon relaxes slightly, but he does not sit down again. Tension is thrumming through him, his feet desperate to run to Minghao, to protect him, but he holds himself back. This is not his arena – he has given Minghao the tools to protect himself; now Minghao will use them.

Except –

Except Minghao does not use the tools Jihoon gave him. He strides forward, unnatural wind whipping around him, lifting his shirt and hair into disarray, the thin string of Jihoon’s spell cord just visible against the heated glow of Minghao’s magic as he summons fire to his fingertips – but it is not fire directed by any spell Jihoon has made him.

Most of Jihoon’s spells are useless now, designed for an earth maege, not a fire caster, but some Minghao was able – as he delightedly informed Jihoon – to co-opt for his new discipline. Jihoon watched him practice them with Soonyoung, getting used to the way Jihoon’s words wrapped around this new element, so familiar and so different from what he has always used in combat.

This is not one of those spells. Jihoon did not even know that Minghao knew spells that did not come from Jihoon, though Jihoon supposes he must. It’s just that Minghao has never bothered to use them before.

Minghao’s fire flows around him in unfamiliar shapes, long arcs of red flames circling above him, his hands moving in corresponding circles at his chest, before he brings them down to strike out at the worm where it writhes between his companions and the fire turns blue and silver.

The creature screams, charred flesh falling away from it in clumps.

Jeonghan slices his sword across its face as Chan ducks beneath its flailing tendrils, daggers moving too quickly for Jihoon to see, and Wonwoo brings his shield up again to blast the thing with heavenly light.

It is Minghao, though, who finishes it, his movements efficient and composed. He steps around the others, circling them on the outside, to face the creature head-on. Jihoon cannot see his expression from here, but he can see the firm set of his posture and the measured steps he takes. He can see the way Minghao’s hands come up, both of them with palms facing out, and he can see Minghao’s hair whip around him as he calls out an incantation Jihoon did not write him and brings forth a ball of fire from his own chest, his voice ringing out across the valley as the magic leaves him.

It sounds sad, some note in his voice, haggard and broken, striking deep at Jihoon, and he flinches back – but he cannot look away.

The fire hits the beast with a roar, the sound of flames overpowering, and the creature has time only to begin to pull away, no sound leaving it, before it falls, its massive form slumping to the ground and moving no more.

Singed flesh permeates the air, the scent thick and oppressive. Below Jihoon, the storm clouds part, Wonwoo’s hand falling to his side. Chan and Jeonghan both step back, Jeonghan’s sword fading to violet light and then to nothing at all as he moves to stand beside Minghao.

Minghao is motionless, hands still extended, staring down at the creature. Now that there is less chaos, less movement, Jihoon can see him better; his lips are moving, but whatever he is saying is too quiet for Jihoon to hear. As he speaks, he steps forward, approaching the slain worm, and drops to his knees, pressing both hands to the creature’s skin. With a crackle like a steady fire devouring fresh kindling, the worm bursts into flames beneath Minghao’s hands, and he keeps them there, upon the creature’s skin, until it burns away to nothing at all.

Not even ash is left as a stain upon the dirt, leaving the four warriors alone in the valley, standing together, heavily – ridiculously – armored against a threat that no longer exists.

On the ridge above, Jihoon swallows against the dust in his throat, raising both shaking hands to cup over his face.

It’s over. Thank the gods he doesn’t venerate – it’s over and Minghao is still alive.

Jeonghan is saying something to Minghao, a hand on his arm, and Minghao nods tersely, his body angled away from Jihoon’s position so that Jihoon can no longer see his face. He can see Wonwoo and Chan, though, both of them looking up at him, matching expressions of anger marring their features.

Jihoon doesn’t know why they would be angry at him; he didn’t interfere, he didn’t distract them. He did nothing at all but sit here and watch as they all played fast and loose with their lives – with _Minghao’s_ life. They should be grateful that Jihoon was so restrained, really. They should feel very grateful that Jihoon’s spell worked exactly as he intended it.

With the battle over, Jihoon descends the hill, dipping back into the valley to meet Minghao, who has turned and is walking in his direction. His expression is shuttered, sending a chill of apprehension through Jihoon, but Jihoon ignores it; Minghao has no reason to be upset with _him_, after all; perhaps the fight didn’t go quite the way he had envisioned.

In the back of his mind, a part of Jihoon wonders if the fact that Minghao abandoned Jihoon’s spells halfway through the battle has anything to do with his foul mood, but he dismisses the thought.

Jihoon has done nothing wrong. He acted in Minghao’s own best interest, since Minghao will not do so himself. With Jihoon looking out for him, Minghao can risk his life without actually putting himself in danger – everybody wins.

“That was –” Jihoon starts, his tone light and congratulatory, but Minghao cuts him off.

“What the _fuck_ was that?” Minghao spits, coming to a stop several yards away. His eyes are hard as flint, glinting dangerously in a way Jihoon has never, ever seen before.

Jihoon stares at him, at a loss. “Minghao, what –”

“That _fucking_ spell, Jihoon,” Minghao interrupts him again, the words laced with venom. His hands are clenched at his sides, fists pressed to his thighs. “What the _hell_ were you thinking?”

Jihoon draws himself up, staring right back at Minghao, bracing himself for the argument he knows is building in Minghao’s mind. He knew Minghao would be surprised by the spell, that its failsafe was hidden in the words, unobvious beneath the rest of its functionality, and he is prepared for a little backlash. Minghao will see that he was right to do it once Jihoon explains.

“It saved your life,” he says levelly. “It did what it was supposed to do.”

“You lied to me,” Minghao accuses, furious. He leans forward, then takes a step back, his hands coming up as though to run through his hair but he can’t seem to unclench his fists and they fall once more to his sides. He is glaring at Jihoon, anger radiating off of him in waves. “You could have gotten me killed,” he hisses, words sharp. “You could have gotten the others killed.”

“The spell protected you,” Jihoon points out. “It does – and did – the opposite of getting you killed.” He has no defense against the second half of Minghao’s charge. He honestly did not give the wellbeing of the other fighters any thought, and he stands by his decision, hastily made though it was. Jihoon’s loyalty is to Minghao; the rest of them are not his concern.

“You lied to me,” Minghao says again, pressing the words more firmly into the space between them, up against Jihoon’s chest. “You manipulated me,” he says, his voice hard until halfway through the second word, and then it cracks, his expression cracking with it.

Jihoon steps forward, reflexive, drawn to Minghao’s distress, compelled to soothe it.

Minghao steps away. He shakes his head, the sharpness in his eyes replaced by the bright sheen of unshed tears. “No, Jihoon,” he says, voice rough. “Don’t.”

Don’t. Don’t touch me, don’t come any closer – don’t look at me like that; Jihoon hears all of it in the words Minghao doesn’t say, sees them written across his face. It stings, rejection burning hot as Minghao’s fire as he swallows it.

“Just go,” Minghao says, barely a whisper, loud in Jihoon’s ears. “Please, just go.”

Jihoon doesn’t want to. He wants to stay, to talk this out, to make Minghao see that he is right, was right to craft the spell as he did, to not tell Minghao, but he knows now is not the time.

Behind Minghao, the other three stand together, glaring at him over Minghao’s shoulder, just far enough away to give privacy but more than close enough for Jihoon to read the derision on their faces. Jihoon doesn’t care about them, their approval or anger, but when he looks back at Minghao, he sees the same anger there, and _that_ he cares about – and, even more, he cares about the sorrow that is layered over it, the rent open heartbreak carved into his eyes and mouth.

“Hao,” he tries, one more time, but Minghao looks away. Jihoon draws in a sharp breath, feeling it cut like glass when it hits his lungs. “Okay,” he says, quietly. “I’ll see you tonight.”

Minghao says nothing, which is better than telling him no, so Jihoon leaves before he does. He ignores the other fighters, their faces streaked with dirt and dark with accusation. He calls Kira to him and turns her towards home, resisting the temptation to look over at Minghao while he does.

He resists temptation until he exits the valley, only then allowing himself a quick glance over his shoulder.

Minghao is staring after him, but not like Jihoon has ever known him to see Jihoon off before. He does not wave, he does not smile; he holds himself rigidly, like he is waiting for a blow.

He watches Jihoon like Jihoon is a danger he must track, his guard up as long as it remains in his sight.

Jihoon turns away and rides for home, forcing away the clawing despair in his chest. When Minghao comes home, Jihoon will talk to him. He will make him understand. He did this to protect Minghao, not to hurt him; Minghao will understand.

He will, Jihoon promises himself, repeating it over and over on the ride home. Minghao will understand why Jihoon had to do it, that he must protect him, and then Minghao will not be angry.

He will understand. He will not leave. Jihoon has not screwed this up forever. It’s fine.

It’s fine.

It will be fine.

It has to be.

~~~

When Minghao comes home, the sun has long since set, shadows pulling dark thoughts from their hiding places. He finds Jihoon sitting in the kitchen, staring at the fireplace and the pot of stew over it, stirring it slowly so it won’t burn before Minghao has a chance to eat.

As Minghao steps into the room, Jihoon looks up, his expression forcefully neutral, careful not to let his desperation show.

Minghao nods at him, dropping his satchel by the door. It lands with a dull thud that does little to break the tense silence.

“Seungkwan made soup,” Jihoon says, breaking it himself if Minghao won’t. “Beef, your favorite.”

“Is he asleep?” Minghao asks. He isn’t looking at Jihoon anymore, but he takes the bowl Jihoon offers him and lets Jihoon fill it. When Jihoon kicks a chair out with his foot, the sound grating against the stillness of the night, Minghao sits without comment, settling across from Jihoon like nothing is wrong.

But everything is wrong.

“Yes,” Jihoon says, feeling stiff and out of sorts. He scratches a nail against the tabletop, worrying at a loose splinter. “A while ago now; he was out all day with Hansol – apparently they know each other, and when I told him Hansol helped Seungcheol save you, he –”

Jihoon has to stop, the casual conversation suffocating with the weight of today’s argument fresh in his mind, especially with the reminder of how close he came to losing Minghao so recently.

“We need to talk, Jihoon,” Minghao says, setting his bowl on the table with a quiet but firm thump. “About today.”

“Yes,” Jihoon agrees. He doesn’t look up, though, suddenly finding that he is the one who cannot meet Minghao’s eyes, even as he sees Minghao duck his head in his periphery, trying to catch Jihoon’s gaze.

“Jihoon, please look at me,” Minghao says. He sounds tired, and worn thin. There is an edge to his voice that Jihoon does not like – one that speaks of final warnings and ultimatums before they are even voiced.

Jihoon looks up, wanting to divert Minghao from whatever course he has set in his mind, but, as soon as he does, he is stuck, struck by the sorrow in Minghao’s gaze.

“Jihoon,” Minghao says, his voice soft, the picture he makes – a full bowl in front of him, night air hanging heavy around him, shadows long and eyes dark in Jihoon’s kitchen – familiar, but this is a bastardized version of that scene. This is a version where Minghao is wary, where he looks at Jihoon like he has reason to be afraid – or, if not afraid, something creeping far too close to that state.

It makes Jihoon feel sick. He wants to defend himself, but his mouth does not seem to work anymore, in the face of Minghao’s apprehension.

When Jihoon makes no reply, Minghao sighs, the sound like defeat. His shoulders are slumped low, his hands wrapped around his bowl, seeking comfort from the warmth.

Jihoon’s jaw works, but nothing comes out.

“What you did today, Jihoon,” Minghao starts, the words halting and unhappy. “I – it isn’t alright. You can’t do that; you can’t lie to me that way.”

“I was protecting you,” Jihoon says, the words slipping out unconsciously, his mouth finding its function again without Jihoon’s input.

Minghao shakes his head, his fingers fidgeting at the lip of the bowl in his hands. “You treat me like a child,” he says, frustration stealing into his tone. “You disregard my desires in favor of your own, you –”

“I have to protect you,” Jihoon says, the words forced out, choking him. He has no choice – Minghao will not protect himself, will not _listen_ when Jihoon tells him not to take foolish risks. It is up to Jihoon to protect Minghao, even from himself.

“Not like this,” Minghao snaps, equally sharp.

“I have no choice,” Jihoon says, trying for honesty, hoping Minghao will _listen_, will _hear_ him. “I have to protect you. You don’t understand.”

“I do understand,” Minghao says, quickly, shaking his head. He releases his bowl and reaches out, taking Jihoon’s hand in both of his. He squeezes, gently, persuading Jihoon to look up, to meet his eyes; when Jihoon does, there is sympathy there – but also stubbornness, eagerness, as though he thinks he is about to make some counterpoint against the truth that shapes Jihoon’s life, as though there can be any rebuttal to what Jihoon knows to be true. “Jihoon, I do understand you,” Minghao says, his hold firm and hand warm against Jihoon’s skin. “I know what happened to Seungkwan –”

Jihoon draws in a sharp breath, and Minghao grabs his hand more firmly, keeping him focused on Minghao, on what he is saying.

“– How much it scared you to lose him,” he says, voice low and soothing, but still with that quick-footed edge, building toward his conclusion, “how scared you still were for so long even after you got him back, but I am not Seungkwan. I am not a child with a fever you can’t shake; I am your friend, your –” he hesitates, his eyes flickering away, something unsaid hanging between them for a moment before he goes on.

Jihoon’s throat is tight with emotion, that thing he never says, never lets Minghao say, too large in this moment to even breathe around. He looks down as Minghao continues.

“I love you, Jihoon,” Minghao says, so earnest, pulling Jihoon’s hand closer to him across the table, stretching Jihoon’s arm across the space between them and tugging his heart taut as a drawn bowstring, “You mean more to me than almost anyone else in this world. But you have to trust me, like I trust you – like I _want_ to trust you.”

Jihoon does trust Minghao; he just also knows Minghao, and he knows that Minghao needs someone to keep him safe. Keeping him safe is Jihoon’s job.

“I have to protect you,” he says again, because that is the long and short of it, the truth burning at the center of it. This is what he must make Minghao understand. “It isn’t a matter of trust, Minghao,” he tells him, fingers rubbing against Minghao’s hands, the feel of his skin sending a shiver through him. “I trust you, but I have to protect you. You can’t be trusted to do it yourself, no matter how much I trust you in every other way.”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about, though,” Minghao says, frustration back and heavy in his tone. His hands contract around Jihoon’s own and Jihoon answers in kind, Minghao’s head ducking in response, almost touching his forehead to their joined hands but not quite dipping that low. Instead, he holds himself there, bent over the table, posture rigid and expression shadowed but still obviously distressed. “Jihoon,” he says tensely, “you have to let me make my own choices. If you don’t, there can be nothing between us.”

“So you’ll leave me,” Jihoon says, the shock of it making him draw back, snatching his hand away from Minghao.

“No, Jihoon, that’s not what I mean,” Minghao says, but Jihoon knows exactly what he means.

It’s an ultimatum: let Minghao get himself killed or else lose his favor, a place in his life, probably forever.

The choice is easy enough to make.

“Fine,” he says, talking over Minghao, his protestations, forcing his voice to be level and emotionless. “Do what you feel you must; I will do the same.”

“Jihoon, _no_,” Minghao says, his voice rough. “You’re making this harder than it needs to be. I just want some room to breathe, not to _leave you_. Jihoon –”

“I am going to protect you, Minghao, whether you like it or not,” Jihoon tells him. He is laying all his cards on the table, cut open and bleeding all over them. “I care more about your safety than your happiness with me. Hate me if you want, but I won’t let you die.”

He cannot lose him. He won’t. He won’t survive that again, especially not if it’s Minghao. He could live through anything else, but not that; he knows it like he knows the sun will rise, incontrovertible and true.

He looks up, holding Minghao’s gaze, his own steady, his resolve firm. “I will protect you, no matter what you say. It is not up to you, Minghao; it is my choice.”

“And my choice?” Minghao asks, voice low, staring back at him. His hands are still stretched across the table, palms empty and open. “Do I have a choice in your world?”

“Not as long as you choose this,” Jihoon says, honest and blunt in a way he has long avoided being.

On the table between them, over the blank emptiness of the wood grain, Minghao’s fingers curl, his hands closing. He pulls them away, to the edge, and then lets them fall into his lap. When he nods, there is something very final about it.

“Okay, Jihoon,” he says, very quietly. “If that is how little you value me, then I won’t trouble you anymore.”

It isn’t that Jihoon does not value him – it is that Jihoon values him _too much_. He opens his mouth to say it, but Minghao is already standing, his gaze fixed firmly away from Jihoon, into the darkness outside the brightly lit island of the kitchen.

“Goodbye, Jihoon,” Minghao says. There is nothing in his voice, no pain or remorse or longing.

When he leaves, he does not look back. He takes his satchel and goes, slipping into the night like a shade, leaving no trace of him behind but the jagged tears he has rent through Jihoon’s heart.

Jihoon sits awake deep into the long hours of the night, staring at nothing, at wood grain, at the still-full bowl of Seungkwan’s beef stew, until the first rays of sunlight disturb him, erasing the shadow of Minghao in the seat across from him.

For the second night in a row, Jihoon does not sleep.

~~~

_Earth does not stray far from sun_

_Flame at the center burns white_

_Leaf on the stem cannot run_

_In darkness, in darkness – light_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be complete, art needs to be seen, experienced, witnessed. So – thank you for reading my fic. I’d love it if you left a comment so I know you engaged with it, because that truly is the goal of every written work – to be engaged with – and it’s always wonderfully gratifying and vitalizing to get confirmation of that from the reader.


	3. Chapter 3

In the days leading up to the hunt, Jihoon is torn. The way he and Minghao left things was fairly blunt, definitive, and not all on Minghao’s end.

… However.

Jihoon keeps thinking about Minghao standing in front of that dragon, his spells failing, staring up into the fire and death of its jaws and realizing that his own magic, fire now too, is not enough, that his now-limited arsenal of attacks cannot save him, and then –

Jihoon never finishes the thought; he can’t stand to let himself.

He doesn’t want Minghao to go on the hunt like this – he doesn’t want Minghao to go on the hunt at all, but he is going to be ignored on that front, he knows he is, there is nothing he can do about that – with this ill will between them. The taste of their last conversation lingers on Jihoon’s tongue, souring everything he tries to eat, turning his stomach, keeping what Minghao said firmly at the forefront of his mind.

_Then I won’t trouble you anymore._

It is not trouble, though, to look after Minghao. It could be easier, certainly, simpler, if Minghao would cooperate, but Jihoon has never found the task bothersome. If it is the only way to keep Minghao alive, Jihoon will gladly be troubled for the rest of his life, and he intends to be.

He does not want Minghao to go into this hunt unprepared – that is the important part. Any petty argument between them is nothing compared to Minghao’s safety.

So he stays up – again and again and again – to prepare _for_ Minghao, since he will not, cannot, do it himself. Jihoon stays up and spins words and pours everything he has into them, hoping, fervent and desperate, that they will be enough.

~~~

On the eve of the hunt, Minghao and his team are camping out on the farthest reaches of the Tilted Basin, up above where the dragon dwells deep in the most secret recesses of the gorge. Jihoon finds them just after the sun has set, when the light is still hazy with fading reds and golds lingering on the horizon, dark violet and blue stealing across the sky above. Their camp is small, not even a fire to protect against the chill wind that whips by them up on the edge of the basin, and Jihoon almost misses it – but when he sees a figure crouched against the skyline on the ridge above him, shoulders bent and head tilted, Jihoon stops short. He would know that silhouette anywhere.

He has no time to approach, though, before there is a blade at his throat.

“Well, well, what have we here,” Jeonghan says, as though Jihoon is some stranger instead of a man Jeonghan has known for years. “An intruder in our camp.”

“I don’t have time for games, Jeonghan,” Jihoon growls at him, impatient, his eyes still tracking Minghao, who has frozen, one hand braced on the earth while the other is lifted, as if to gesture to someone before the movement was cut short.

“And we don’t have time for lying bastards,” Jeonghan says lightly, “so I suggest you turn and leave.”

“I have to see Minghao,” Jihoon tells him. He steps forward, away from Jeonghan, but Jeonghan grabs him by the arm and jerks him back, his blade pressing again into Jihoon’s neck – sharper this time, nearly pricking Jihoon’s skin, the barest restraint keeping blood from spilling.

“Minghao does not want to see you,” he says, his voice very quiet and still, and Jihoon has known Jeonghan long enough to read the threat in it.

He doesn’t care. He has to speak to Minghao.

“Get out of my way, Jeonghan,” Jihoon snaps. He shoves at Jeonghan’s sword, a silent incantation protecting his palm from the blade, and goes to move forward again, but still Jeonghan holds him fast.

“Unlike you, I actually value what Minghao wants – his decisions and boundaries – so, no, I won’t be letting you pass.” Jeonghan’s grip is bruising, no doubt, his fingers digging in. “You can leave under your own power, or I can make you leave. Either way, you’re leaving … _now_.”

“No, I’m not,” Jihoon says. “I have to see –”

“Here I am,” Minghao says, suddenly stepping out of the shadows to Jihoon’s right. Jihoon glances up and realizes he lost sight of Minghao some moments ago, distracted by Jeonghan’s obstinance. “Speak your piece, Jihoon, and let us rest. We need to be operating at full measures for the hunt in the morning.”

At a quick look from Minghao, Jeonghan releases Jihoon with a flourish, stepping back and vanishing in almost a single breath, leaving Minghao and Jihoon alone on the ridge.

The wind around them picks up, and Minghao shivers, his light clothing not enough in the evening air. He has always been susceptible to the cold. Jihoon goes to remove his own cloak, to offer it to Minghao, but Minghao reads his intention and shakes his head, stepping back, away from Jihoon, and eyeing him warily.

“Say what you came to say, Jihoon,” Minghao says. He sounds tired, not physically but emotionally, mentally, exhausted by Jihoon’s presence before he has even said a word to him. He glances away, and the wind picks up the stray hairs that escape his low ponytail, tossing them around his face in the hazy light. His hair is so long now, longer than he usually wears it.

Jihoon likes it. Jihoon likes everything about Minghao, and it pains him to know that Minghao thinks he is a burden in Jihoon’s life when the truth could not be further from it.

“You are not a trouble to me, Minghao,” Jihoon tells him, getting right to the heart of it. “I don’t mind looking out for you – I like doing it, I like protecting you, taking care of you, I like –”

“Is that what you took from that conversation?” Minghao asks, interrupting him, his tone incredulous.

Jihoon watches him, the shadows on his face, the details of him he is so familiar with. He does not know how to respond. Minghao is staring at him, lips parted, fascination in his eyes, but layered over it is a deep resignation and sorrow.

Jihoon does not know what is happening, what that expression means, but he does not like it.

Minghao looks down, after a long moment, and his shoulders slump. Every line of him is dejected – disheartened – and Jihoon jerks forward to comfort him, but Minghao’s head snaps up at the movement, his eyes hard, warning Jihoon back.

Jihoon swallows, words trapped in his throat.

Minghao’s expression softens, then, by the smallest increment, and he sighs.

“I cannot be your friend anymore, Jihoon,” he says quietly. Jihoon flinches, but Minghao presses on, his words like shards of glass against Jihoon’s skin. “I do not think I am a burden in your life, but you are a burden in mine – not because of anything you do, but because of what you _won’t_ do: because you will not give me room to breathe.”

“I don’t –” Jihoon starts, but Minghao cuts him off.

“You do,” he says, shaking his head, frustration evident on his face but not in his voice. His voice is perfectly level, reasonable, rational, as he dismisses Jihoon from his life. “You told me yourself you do not respect my judgement, my choices –”

“When you are _wrong_,” Jihoon interjects. “Otherwise –”

“I am trying to make you understand, Jihoon!” Minghao shouts, suddenly, his voice reverberating around the rocky shelf, echoing out over the basin. His eyes close, his expression pained.

He almost never shouts, only one occasion coming to Jihoon’s memory, and then it had been because he had not slept in days, had sustained injuries Jihoon could not heal all at once, their severity was so great, and when Mingyu came barreling into the house where Minghao was trying to rest he had knocked over a vase Minghao had given Jihoon summers ago, and Minghao’s patience, worn so very thin, had snapped. He apologized after, and Jihoon had marveled at how much it took for him to lose his temper, usually so even it barely existed, and even Mingyu had admitted to being shocked more than hurt, had accepted his words easily and vowed to be more careful in the future. Minghao’s voice had only risen for a moment, and he had acted like the world was ended, like he had committed some great sin.

Minghao hates to lose his temper, little can drive him to it, but now every line of him is tense, anger coiled in his rigid shoulders and set jaw.

And then, just as suddenly, the moment passes, and Minghao lets it go.

When Minghao’s posture unfurls, though, Jihoon cannot lie to himself that Minghao has released only his anger; the cold resignation in Minghao’s eyes will not let him.

“Jihoon,” Minghao says. There is so much in that one word, so much pain and tiredness and tension and sorrow and affection. There is so much, Jihoon does not know which emotion to put first, to read most dominantly, and before he can figure it out Minghao continues. “As long as you refuse to respect my choices, we cannot be friends. We cannot be anything if you do not hold my will as important as your own, if you do not allow me authority in my own life. Your protection is not love, Jihoon, it is control, and I want no part in it. You cannot put someone in a cage and call it love; not without making liars of us both.”

Jihoon wants to say something, but no words come to him. He wants to argue, but the wind is gone out of him, his lungs compressed inward, his inhales ragged.

_This_ is what Minghao thinks of him? He thinks Jihoon wants to control him? That isn’t it at all; Jihoon doesn’t want to cage Minghao, he wants to keep him safe. He just wants to curb his more self-destructive impulses, to keep him _alive_, to –

To restrict him, yes, but only enough to keep him _safe_.

Minghao is staring at him, his expression pained – but also, terrifyingly, accepting.

“Minghao,” Jihoon says, all he can say, the name lost in the air between them.

“This isn’t what I want, Jihoon,” Minghao says, words heavy, his expression heavier. “But I can’t – I can’t do this anymore. Loving you is destroying me, and if I don’t stop now there won’t be anything left. You don’t do it on purpose – that’s the only reason I’ve put us both through this for so long; I was hoping you would … let go. Let _me_ go enough to love me. But you won’t. Maybe you can’t. So – goodbye, Jihoon. I hope you find someone you love enough to trust, someday.” Minghao’s face is creased with unhappiness, but, through the sorrow and the grief, he smiles. He smiles at Jihoon like he means it, though it is strained and weak.

“Minghao,” Jihoon says again, his hand lifting, wanting to grab Minghao, to hold him here, to keep him where Jihoon can see him because he knows this is it, this is the end, this is the moment Minghao leaves him forever – but he doesn’t. He won’t keep Minghao somewhere he doesn’t want to be. He can’t, he – he isn’t what Minghao says he is, he doesn’t –

Suddenly, Minghao’s expression shifts, the fragile smile slipping off of his face as pain takes its place, twisting up his mouth as he pitches forward, onto the ground, hands coming up to clutch his throat.

Jihoon lunges for him, bracing his shoulders with shaking hands, his eyes wide as every other time this has happened flashes through his mind.

No, no, no, _no_ – they fixed this! Jihoon fixed this, he saved him, he prayed to a demon and put fire in Minghao’s chest so this _wouldn’t happen anymore!_

Minghao is choking, gasping, his hands scrabbling at Jihoon’s arms, his fingers twitching sporadically, as he seeks Jihoon’s eyes. Jihoon meets him, catches his face with one hand, the other still holding him, maneuvering Minghao into his lap, murmuring words of reassurance even he doesn’t listen to.

Then, Minghao opens his mouth, and Jihoon stops breathing.

Inside Minghao, beyond his cracking lips and wild eyes, fire rages, red and gold and white, licking at his skin, coming up from his lungs, _burning_ him from the inside out. The heat of it is devastating, making Jihoon flinch back even as he clutches Minghao tighter, staring at him in horror, watching the flames rise higher and higher and higher –

~~~

_Run river run river run river run_

_Find somewhere deep in the deep to lie still_

_Sun burning sun burning sun burning sun_

_Seek something far and then farther out still_

~~~

The words are almost not enough. Jihoon sings them over and over, whispers them into Minghao’s ear as Jeonghan pours water down his throat, Jihoon’s hand on Minghao’s neck so his words will take hold of the water and be carried down into him, so they will spread from there to soothe the flames that fade by the second.

It takes time – far too much time – but eventually the fire goes out, and Minghao’s body falls still, limp in Jihoon’s hold, sweat dripping off them both as the heat recedes enough for the cool night air to wash over them and touch their skin once again.

Jihoon shivers from more than the chill that overtakes him, staring down into Minghao’s face. He doesn’t stop singing, weaving new words of healing around Minghao, repairing the damage he knows has been done, like he used to do when flowers came up through his throat instead of fire.

It isn’t the same, but Jihoon focuses on the familiarity of it to ground himself, to keep his hands and lips moving until the job is done.

When he finishes, Minghao is breathing easier, no hitch to his breath or stutter in the rise and fall of his chest, but Jihoon’s hands still shake.

“This is your fault.”

Jihoon’s head jerks up, staring wide-eyed at Wonwoo.

Wonwoo looks furious, and when he continues, his words are bitter and sharp. “This is what you do to him. You are _killing_ him, always bringing him closer and then driving him away. This is _your fault_.”

Jeonghan and Chan say nothing, but their eyes agree with Wonwoo. Jihoon looks between them, then down at Minghao, and swallows the hard lump in his throat.

“We will take him from here,” Jeonghan says, his hands coming into Jihoon’s vision as he tries to lift Minghao from his lap.

Jihoon holds on, his grip tightening, and when he looks up Jeonghan glares right back at him.

“Let him go, Jihoon,” Jeonghan growls, white light flashing in his eyes – a clear threat.

The power and magic in his eyes is not what makes Jihoon’s fingers fall slack, though.

It is the words.

Let go. Let him go enough to love him. Let him –

“I need to stay,” he says, subdued, when Jeonghan and Wonwoo take Minghao from him, when he has followed them all to their camp. “I should watch him tonight, to make sure –”

To make sure he wakes up.

“Then I’ll – I’ll go.”

Jeonghan exchanges quick glances with Wonwoo and then with Chan. Wonwoo shrugs, his eyes still hard, but Chan shakes his head, glaring at Jihoon. Jeonghan stares at Jihoon a moment as well, his gaze assessing.

Jihoon cannot bring himself to hold his stare, his eyes drawn back to Minghao in seconds, everything in him desperate to go to him, to hold him, to make certain he is okay. He holds himself back, though, knowing his presence would be unwelcome were Minghao to wake up.

What Minghao wants _does_ matter, it just –

Jihoon has always thought it mattered less than keeping him safe, keeping him alive, like when Seungkwan, seven years old, wanted to play in the rain and Jihoon had to tell him no because his constitution was weak, always so fragile, when he was young, and they could not risk another fever.

But Minghao is not Seungkwan. He is not a child.

And Jihoon does not want to control him, it has never been that, it’s just –

He cannot afford to _lose_ him.

“You can stay,” Jeonghan says, drawing Jihoon’s attention back to him and eliciting mutterings of discontent from Chan. Jihoon opens his mouth to thank Jeonghan, but Jeonghan shakes his head. “Shut up and keep your distance unless you need to touch him for some kind of bard reason,” he says sharply. “Don’t let him die.”

Jihoon won’t. If there is one thing Jihoon knows, that is it. He will not let Minghao die, he will not let –

_Let him go._

_Your fault._

Flames rising from Minghao’s throat, flowers growing from his lungs.

_Loving you is destroying me._

Jihoon sits on the far side of the camp, watching Minghao through the night. Minghao’s chest moves evenly, no fire, no flowers, in sight. Jihoon’s own breathing is far less steady.

He ignores the other three, who take turns at watch and ignore him right back – other than Chan, who glares at him without once looking away – and watches Minghao … thinks about Minghao … thinks about Minghao’s words. He thinks about Seungkwan and that it is twice now he has called a healer to save someone he loves, been afraid they would be too late, watched the life leave their eyes and known there was nothing he could do.

He thinks about Minghao, getting out of his sick bed and immediately seeking someone to help him learn, to help him master his new skills, accepting what Jihoon had done and carrying on with his life like it didn’t shake or strain him. Minghao has always been resilient. Minghao has always been strong.

It is Jihoon, between them, who is weak, afraid, stumbling. Is it his weakness now that draws him up short, that demands he ignore Minghao’s words and protect him anyway?

Is he right, or has he been wrong all this time?

He cannot afford to lose Minghao, but this … he will do anything to stop the flames from coming back.

_Let him go._

_Destroying me._

_Your fault._

_Let him go._

When the sun rises, he still has no idea what he is meant to do.

~~~

Minghao insists that he is fine and will not be persuaded to stay out of the hunt – not that his team does much persuading, leaving the bulk of the work to Jihoon after a few inquiries as to Minghao’s health and then, satisfied with Minghao’s self-assessments, beginning their own preparations to go after the dragon.

Jihoon tries harder, following Minghao around the camp while he stretches and checks and rechecks his reagents, but when Minghao snaps at him to leave him alone, Jihoon does, slinking to the other side of the ridge to watch Minghao in silence.

Observing Minghao with his team is a very strange thing. The four of them move well together, their footsteps falling into sync as they head out of the campsite, no trace of them left behind. They communicate with quick looks and vague gestures, and the intimacy they have leaves Jihoon feeling bereft, on the outside, for once, of Minghao’s world.

When they reach the bottom of the gorge, the fighters form a tight circle to plan their approach, and Chan does a double take when he catches sight of Jihoon trailing behind them. Chan leans in, murmuring something to the other three, and Minghao glances over at Jihoon, his gaze unimpressed.

Jeonghan beckons him over, and Jihoon goes, joining the group in the shadow of an outcropping mere yards from the den of the dragon. He stands between Minghao and Chan, Chan’s shoulder quickly angling to block Jihoon from the group, communicating very clearly that he is not one of them. Minghao makes no move to either include or exclude him, his indifference to Jihoon’s presence a barb in itself.

“You need to leave,” Jeonghan says, voice low. “This is no place for you.”

Jihoon glances at Minghao, who stares back at him, impassive. Jihoon wants to stay.

“I could be useful,” he argues, driven by the need, the need he cannot bring himself to quash entirely, to stay close enough to keep Minghao safe, despite his new reservations on that subject. He does not know where he fits into all of this, but he still cannot watch Minghao go into danger willingly and not defend him. “You don’t have a healer; I can –”

“Jeonghan is our healer,” Wonwoo interrupts him. “And Minghao knows some spells.”

“You are about to face off against a _dragon_,” Jihoon points out, a bit testily. “Surely you can see the benefit of having an actual, dedicated healer with you? Why don’t you have one in your party?”

The four of them exchange looks, something heavy passing between them.

“We did,” Chan says bluntly, after a moment.

Jeonghan looks down, his expression set in hard lines. Minghao rubs a hand on his arm until Jeonghan nods at him, his head angled up to give Minghao some look Jihoon cannot see.

“Let him come,” Minghao says, surprising Jihoon, his hopes rising until Minghao continues, not looking at him, shifting his gaze around his companions instead. “If we don’t, he will follow me anyway, and the last thing we need is an untrained civilian in the line of fire.”

The comment stings – for more than one reason – but Jihoon knows it is deserved. He wants to believe he would not endanger Minghao and the others in that way, but … his past behavior has certainly not indicated his restraint when it comes to Minghao’s safety and his own determination to play watchdog. He cannot even say for certain that Minghao is not right to be worried about Jihoon’s interference now; he feels strung out, unsure of his own feelings as he looks at Minghao, last night’s events lingering in his mind.

“I don’t know,” Wonwoo says, turning an assessing gaze on Jihoon. “Bait might be helpful.”

He doubles over, grunting, when Minghao smacks the back of his hand against his breastplate. Chan snickers. Jeonghan sighs, dramatic and put-upon.

“All right,” Jeonghan says, keeping his voice low but drawing everyone’s attention anyway, authority lacing his voice and bearing as he straightens up. “Minghao, you will be in charge of Jihoon.” Minghao nods, looking at Jeonghan instead of at Jihoon; Jihoon tries not to be disheartened by that. “Otherwise, this is exactly like we’ve discussed. Everything goes according to plan and we all get out of this alive. Agreed?”

A chorus of affirmations overlaps itself as Minghao, Wonwoo, and Chan all voice their understanding of the plan. It is little help to Jihoon, who does not know the plan, but he nods along anyway, wanting to seem like a team player.

Wonwoo snorts at him. Chan rolls his eyes.

Minghao turns slightly to grab Jihoon by the shoulder and forcibly move him back, behind the rest of the group as they begin to advance cautiously towards the cave, looking Jihoon firmly in the eye as he lingers a moment to speak. “Stay behind me and do as I say,” he orders. “If someone is injured, heal them, but otherwise do not engage. Do you understand?”

“Of course,” Jihoon agrees. “I won’t get in your way.”

Minghao does not look as though he believes him, but he says nothing more, his attention shifting to Chan, who has taken point the way he did against the worm creature, leading them deeper into the gorge.

And so it begins.

Jihoon stays close at Minghao’s back as they approach the cavern, keeping to his right side but behind him so that he can see what’s going on. Minghao makes no comment, all his focus on the path ahead of them.

The mouth of the cave is huge, larger than Jihoon thought it was from a distance, surrounding outcroppings obscuring its true size. It is easily forty feet high, jagged spires and cracked slabs of rock jutting from around it. The rock at the top of it is broken, chucks of stone littering the ground, forcing the group to weave around them.

When they duck inside, the cavern is larger still, stretching to nearly twice the size of the entrance as the ground dips down, hollowed out and worn away, slick with running water and gritty with loose pebbles. To the right, a massive waterfall cascades from the ceiling, the crack high above where it flows down from letting in the only sliver of light, the water chasing away from them and down into the cave, washing across their path to render all footholds dangerous and feeble.

Minghao’s hand reaches behind him, snagging Jihoon’s shirt and tracing down to his arm, catching Jihoon’s hand when he offers it and bringing it to the small of his back where he presses Jihoon’s palm flat against himself. Jihoon wraps his fingers around the course weave of Minghao’s shirt, and Minghao lets go, seemingly satisfied with Jihoon’s compliance.

They move forward slowly, Chan leading them on, his steps light and easy in the gloom ahead of them. Jihoon envies his quick footedness, struggling to keep up and not lose his balance.

When they reach what must be the bottom of the cave, water pooling around their ankles, Jeonghan lifts a hand, and they all stop in tandem, though Jihoon can barely make him out in the weak lighting and Chan’s back is to the rest of them. Jeonghan glances around, his eyes glowing faintly white, tracking over their surroundings, looking for something.

He seems to find it, because, in the next moment, he lowers his raised hand and, just as quickly, a surge of light rips through the darkness, emanating from his palm to hit the water below them and shoot out across its surface, lighting up the whole cavern in an instant.

Jihoon staggers, his grip on Minghao’s shirt the only thing keeping him up, as the wave of magic comes over him and then passes on, his hair standing on end at the power it contains. He hardly pays that any attention, though, once he blinks away the afterimage left in his eyes and his gaze catches on what is lurking, coiled and monstrous, at the back of the cave.

The dragon is enormous, big enough to fill the cavern, its wings folded skeletal and heaving over its long-snouted face, its eyes blinking open to reveal the most perfect shade of blue Jihoon has ever seen. The body of the creature is black, pitch black, sucking in the light of Jeonghan’s magic so that a haze of darkness lies around it, Jeonghan’s light reduced to a filmy mist that reveals the beast’s features only in snatches and glimmers as magic fights magic to illuminate and obscure. Clinging to the dragon’s scales is an assortment of branches and stones, exposed sporadically, all caught in the rough of its hide, but, more disturbingly, among the natural debris, as it shifts something else it wears catches feebly at Jeonghan’s magic and glints sallow-white and horrifying – _bones_.

_This_ is why they are here. Jihoon cannot fathom how many it has killed, the bones of its victims stuck to it in grisly memorial. As it unfurls its wings, rearing up to its full height, long claws, longer than Jihoon’s entire body, dragging against the stone with a screeching wail, more bones fall, clattering to the ground around it.

For the first time, Jihoon fully understands why they did not want him here. He is far, far, _far_ out of his depth.

Minghao drags him away, to the side of the cavern, as he whips fire around both their heads, the heat of it making Jihoon sweat. Ahead of them, Wonwoo and Jeonghan are spreading out, splitting the dragon’s focus, white light flooding the room as thunder shakes it. Jihoon has no idea where Chan is; he cannot see him at all.

Minghao shoves him down behind a jagged rock, his body shielding Jihoon fully as he turns to face the battle. Jihoon’s hold on Minghao’s shirt is torn away as he stumbles, catching himself with both hands against the ground. He can hear the battle but not see it, the dragon’s screams rending the air as Wonwoo and Jeonghan shout, their voices overlapping as the magic, the power, in the cavern builds and builds, nearly suffocating.

Above him, Minghao stands tall and firm, the flames in his hands blue and silver, wild arcs of it all Jihoon can see from his vantage point.

Then, Minghao steps away, and Jihoon loses sight of him altogether.

“Minghao!” Jihoon shouts, darting forward, losing his cover to chase after him, but when he steps out into the fray he stops short, staring at the melee before him.

The dragon is lit up with white fire and lightning, Jeonghan’s sword protruding from one eye as the sword’s master stands on the ground below it, hands extended to send brilliant magic up to the channel of his blade while he dodges, hitting the beast again and again as it flails and screams, trying to get the sword out and swat at Jeonghan, failing at both tasks.

Chan is on top of the thing, Jihoon can only just see him, leaping across the creature’s back and striking down in some rhythm only he can understand, each blow drawing a shriek that Jihoon fears will shatter his eardrums.

Wonwoo is standing atop an outcropping of rock, the ceiling split open above him, rain pouring down from the furious sky Jihoon can only just see overhead, the torrential current it creates nearly sweeping Jihoon’s feet from under him, throwing him against the rock he was just hiding behind.

It has only been minutes, and already it is chaos. Jihoon cannot tell if they are winning or losing, but he does know that any one of them is likely to be killed at any moment, the dragon’s tail lashing out unexpectedly and striking Wonwoo in the chest, sending him flying into the darkness beyond the reach of Jeonghan’s lingering light.

Jihoon starts forward, to go to him, but stops when he realizes he does not see Minghao anywhere. He turns quickly, squinting against the storm – he hopes the storm means that Wonwoo is still alive, that if he were not it would have ended, but he cannot be sure – and the flashes of Jeonghan’s magic.

There! He sees him, his back to the wall across from Jihoon, his face set and focused on the dragon writhing before him, fire filling the air. His clothes are singed, his flames building almost out of his control entirely, so bright Jihoon can hardly look at them. Amidst the fire and the heat and the light, though, Jihoon’s gaze catches on something else, swirling around Minghao’s feet, thick and terrifying.

There is blood in the water.

Jihoon can see the way the water has gone red from here, Wonwoo’s storm driving waves against Minghao’s legs, throwing his balance until he falls to the side, his shoulder connecting painfully with the wall – but his hands do not waver, still spinning flames, his attention still on the dragon even as he bleeds out into the cold water at his feet.

He will not die. Jihoon will not let him die.

Another crack of thunder shakes the room, lightning striking at the dragon’s chest in almost the same instant. The wail it looses is deafening.

Jihoon cannot see Jeonghan or Chan anymore, hasn’t seen Wonwoo in minutes, but he can’t be distracted by that; he has to get to Minghao.

He staggers across the open space between them, fighting the storm, the current dragging at him, watching in horror as Minghao falls to one knee, his fire faltering for a moment as the dragon’s tail beats into the stone above his head, only missing him by inches.

“No!” Jihoon shouts, the sound lost, falling too as his focus slips, the rushing water pulling him to the floor and tossing him brutally against rock, filling his mouth and nose.

He hears nothing but the roar of the current, his lungs struggling and finding no air to inhale, only water, water, water. It is hard to tell if his vision is dimming when there is no light beneath the surface, but Jihoon knows he’s dying.

He’s dying.

He can feel a wound in his side, sapping his strength, and he cannot find his feet to stand.

He is going to die, and this is how it happens, cold and alone in the storm.

It’s stupid now, but he wishes he had said –

Jihoon chokes, coughing as he is pulled from the water, thrown onto a slab of stone that puts him just above the waves, sprawled on his side and heaving.

“Jihoon, are you all right? Breathe, Jihoon! Are you all right!”

Minghao.

Minghao is shouting at him, shaking him, blood running down his face.

Jihoon reaches up, pressing his palm to Minghao’s cheek, and closes his eyes, a healing spell dragged out of him by sheer force of will as he shakes against the stone.

“You stupid –” Minghao’s voice cuts off, and Jihoon feels a rush of warmth steal over him, wrap around him, pressing tight against his side like a bandage.

Then, the pressure fades, and Jihoon’s mind is clearer. He opens his eyes and finds Minghao staring down at him, his expression concerned, the warmth of his hand heavy and comforting against Jihoon’s side.

“Are you all right?” Minghao asks, some of the frantic edge bled out of his voice. He has to shout to be heard over the continuing storm, but there is gentleness in the words all the same.

Jihoon nods at him, dumbly, overwhelmed with gratitude that Minghao is alive and safe.

He would not have survived losing him.

“Good!” Minghao shouts. “Now stay here! Stop putting yourself in danger and let us focus!”

“I had to save you,” Jihoon protests, his fingers sliding against Minghao’s when he grabs his hand, trying to keep Minghao here. He doesn’t want Minghao to run off again, to be in danger again. He can’t risk losing him. “I had to help you.”

“If you want to help me, then _help me_!” Minghao says, pulling his hand away. “Stop trying to monitor me all the time and _trust_ me! Trust that I know what the hell I’m doing, and have my back instead of crippling us both with your stupid compulsion to rescue me!”

Then he’s gone, vanishing from Jihoon’s side in a flash of lightning, leaving Jihoon alone on the rock with the rain beating down on him.

Jihoon is cold, his fingers twitching uselessly against the rock where Minghao dropped them.

He doesn’t know how to do what Minghao is asking of him. Minghao wants him to help, but wants Jihoon to let him put himself in danger – those two things are at odds in Jihoon’s mind, they don’t make any sense in tandem, but that is what Minghao wants.

_Loving you is destroying me._

_Let me go enough to love me._

He wants to keep Minghao and he wants to keep him safe, but he is beginning to understand that perhaps he cannot have both – and maybe, all this time, he has been choosing wrong when he selected one over the other.

Minghao is back in the fray, his lithe form all but lost in the chaos of the storm, lit in flashes by Wonwoo’s lightning, Jeonghan’s magic, and his own fire. He looks strong. Standing in the center of it all, his hands lifted and golden flames raining down, sizzling in the downpour that cannot overwhelm them, he looks like magic personified, power made tangible, and Jihoon –

He thinks of flames coming up Minghao’s throat, of _loving you is destroying me_, of Minghao asking for his trust and assistance so many times but always rejecting his protection.

Jihoon cannot leave Minghao alone in the storm. If Minghao will only take this much, then that is what Jihoon will give him, and he will pray to every god he has forsaken that it is enough.

It has to be enough.

He stands, shaky on the slick rock face, and casts his gaze around the battlefield for where he will be most useful. Minghao does not need him right now; Minghao is taking care of himself. Jihoon will help in other ways – there are other people here who could probably use a bard’s aid.

Immediately, his eyes light on Wonwoo, who is standing in a dip in the floor, the rushing, ferocious waves nearly to this waist, tossing him about as he staggers, trying to stay in place. He has a gash across his forehead, and Jihoon sees blood on his back, whatever injury lies there too severe for the rain to wash it clean.

He can help there.

He looks again at Minghao, who has joined Chan at the beast’s feet, shooting magic up at it when Chan strikes a blow with a throwing knife, driving fire into the open wounds. Every time they hit it, the double attack quick enough to almost be one motion, the dragon shrieks and writhes, but it cannot get at them beneath its belly and Jeonghan has it driven into the corner with a wall of celestial light so that it cannot run. The battle is winding down, Jihoon thinks, and Minghao does not need him right now; he is handling himself just fine.

Jihoon turns, away from Minghao, towards Wonwoo, and lifts his hands, a song rising in his throat. When he sings, he still sings for Minghao, but now he lets the words carry out to someone else, trusting that Minghao will still be there, still be standing and breathing, when Jihoon looks back to him.

It is the most difficult thing Jihoon has ever had to do, but he does it. He does it for Minghao.

His magic wraps around Wonwoo, and he sees the stormcaller shudder as his injuries close up and heal themselves, warm light embracing him. He drops to his knees when Jihoon’s magic leaves him, and Jihoon starts forward, but Wonwoo is not in distress – it is the farthest thing from it.

Wonwoo lifts both hands, shouting over the din of the rain and the thunder, waves crashing around him with violent fury, and looses a blast of blue lightning that fills Jihoon’s vision and blots out all else, the raw power of it hurtling through the enclosed space of the cavern to strike out at the dragon, slamming into the creature right above its heart.

Through the blur of his affected vision, Jihoon sees Minghao shout and reach up, grabbing the tail of the lightning as it passes his head, lifting his hair and singeing his skin with the heat and speed of it, and Jihoon’s heart stops, his magic roaring to life and demanding he let it go to Minghao, insulate him from that heat, _protect him_, but Jihoon holds it back.

He watches, heart in his throat, trusting Minghao to know what he is doing, terrified like he has never been, as Minghao’s magic builds and crackles in the air, as it drowns out the sound of the rain. The cavern fills with steam and heavy mist as the raging water evaporates in an instant, the ground suddenly desiccated beneath them, Jihoon’s lips going dry as the heat wave knocks him back.

Minghao’s hand is a blur of fire, blue and white and glimmering gold, in that instant as he lets the long tail of the lightning slip through his fingers, his own magic weaving around him and latching onto the end of Wonwoo’s, and then he lets go, dropping to the ground as flames much, much larger than his body collide with the dragon’s chest, striking it with a burst of color and sound.

The dragon stumbles back, a terrible shriek leaving its gaping jaws, and throws itself into the back of the cave in a vain attempt to escape the flames. Its death cries echo through the cavern, chilling Jihoon to the core, the sound of it awful and disturbing.

Then, all is quiet.

A gentle rain falls, soothing on Jihoon’s skin, the storm vanished and leaving only this pale shower in its wake. Wonwoo is still on his knees, though now there is no violent current tossing him about; his hands are at his sides, and his face is tilted up, to the crack he rent in the ceiling, his eyes closed.

Jeonghan is approaching Chan, his voice lifted, but Jihoon cannot hear him over the ringing in his ears. Chan stands, getting up from where he was thrown when the magic hit the beast, and he seems fine, if a little worse for wear, Jeonghan’s condition similar, but Jihoon does not see Minghao at all.

He stumbles forward, staring with mounting horror and fear at the place he saw Minghao fall, and soon he is there, standing beside Jeonghan and Chan, the dragon’s corpse in a heap before them, and still he does not see him.

He looks up, at Jeonghan, and finds that he is being watched. He licks his lips, his thoughts spinning wildly.

“Where is he?” he asks. The words barely come out, his throat dry and sore, but he knows Jeonghan heard him – he knows because, instead of answering him, Jeonghan looks away, and his jaw is set.

No.

“Where is he?” Jihoon asks again, much louder, his throat grating, feeling as though it might tear, but Jihoon does not care. He is shouting now, desperation flooding him – “Where is Minghao, Jeonghan? Where did he go? Answer me!”

“Jihoon,” Chan says, softly, his expression compassionate, drawn, somber.

No.

No, no, _no_.

Jihoon turns away from them both, surveying the cavern desperately. Minghao has to be here somewhere, he _has to be_. He is not –

Jihoon can’t even think it, can’t let the idea exist even within his mind. Minghao is alive, and he is fine – if he is hurt, Jihoon will heal him, and then he will be fine. It will all be okay once Jihoon finds him. He just has to find him.

_So where is he?_

This can’t be how he loses him, Jihoon thinks wildly. This can’t be it. Jihoon only just decided to stop trying so hard to keep Minghao safe, to let Minghao make his own choices even if those choices frightened Jihoon, he cannot be gone already. This cannot be the consequence of trusting Minghao; Minghao would not do this to him. Minghao would not ask Jihoon to trust him and then leave him like this.

Minghao loves him; he would never hurt Jihoon this way.

Minghao loves him, and so he _must_ be alive.

Jihoon’s eyes catch on the dragon, the husk of it crumpled and foul in the corner. It is the only place Minghao can be.

“No, Jihoon, don’t,” Chan says, trying to pull him away from the dragon, trying to make him let go of the debris he is trying to yank out of his way.

Jihoon shoves Chan aside.

“Either help me or fuck off,” he snaps, not looking up, keeping his whole focus on getting to Minghao, finding him, because he _has to be here_, this is the only place he could be and _he is not dead_.

He is only vaguely aware of Jeonghan joining him, pulling pieces of the dragon away by his side. Jihoon doesn’t really care – he will find Minghao with or without their help. When Chan and Wonwoo come to search on either side of him, Jihoon doesn’t spare them a glance.

He digs deeper and deeper into the corpse, Jeonghan’s magic and Chan’s blades helping slice their way in, an entire limb behind them now, shoved out of their way and allowed to tumble into the hollow of the floor. It stinks, the smell nearly choking them all, but Jihoon pushes on. If Minghao is beneath this thing, his lungs could be compressed, he could be actually choking, drawing his last breaths now with Jihoon only feet away from him but unable to save him.

He will not allow Minghao to die. Minghao cannot die. Jihoon will not survive it.

Bones and branches hit the floor behind them, each making a hollow clatter or a dull thump. They find much more lodged in the dragon’s scales, too, gold and gemstones and broken furniture and a length of rope that winds tightly around its belly. It is only as they begin to cut into its stomach, hacking away pieces of it, unable to move the bulk of it without first cutting it up quite small, that Jihoon sees anything to spark real hope.

There, trapped in the dully black scales, is a ribbon of vibrant green, the edges frayed and bloodstained, as if severed from around a wrist.

“Here!” Jihoon shouts, grabbing the ribbon and stuffing it into his pocket. “He’s here!”

The others do not question him; they move in tighter, their efforts more focused now, more frantic, as the threat of Minghao suffocating beneath the monster becomes more real.

It takes them far too long to reach him. When Jihoon sees his hand sticking out, fingers curled loosely in the air, his heart almost stops, terror seizing him, but Jeonghan shoulders his way in front, his sword materializing in his hand as he swings at the dragon’s hide above Minghao, made bold now that they know where he is.

If, that is, the rest of him is still attached to that hand.

They need to get him out _now_.

“Wait,” Jihoon says, shoving Jeonghan aside, muscling his way between two chunks of dragon carcass to crouch by Minghao’s hand. It’s cold, but when Jihoon touches it he feels life running through it. Minghao is alive. “Here,” he says, his hands shaking, his eyes only on Minghao, “blast it away. You can do that, right, Jeonghan? Just eviscerate it with celestial magic?”

“Yeah,” Jeonghan says. “But he won’t survive it. I can’t exactly aim that precisely when we’re talking magic strong enough to melt a dragon.”

“You don’t have to aim it; I’ll protect him.” Jihoon runs his fingers over Minghao’s palm, already beginning to work the protective spell over him. The magic glints green and blue, skating across Minghao’s skin and disappearing beneath the dragon to cover the rest of him, the parts that Jihoon cannot see. He looks over his shoulder at Jeonghan when there is no response. “Do it!” he commands.

Jeonghan nods, his celestial sword glowing fiercely, and steps closer. Behind him, Chan and Wonwoo both step back, giving him room to work.

“You can protect yourself, too, right?” Jeonghan asks, pausing with his hand already raised. “Minghao will kill me if I let you die.”

“I can protect us both,” Jihoon promises. He is fairly certain he can. He has never tried a spell like this before – not on this scale. He will focus his power on Minghao, but there should be enough to keep him safe as well. “Do it,” he says, firming his grip on Minghao.

He ducks down, pressing a kiss to Minghao’s palm, and stays there, listening to Jeonghan’s sharp inhale. Then, just as his eyes slip closed, he is surrounded by a white light.

It is as bright as anything he has seen today, the heat of it certainly devastating, but Jihoon feels nothing, sees nothing but stars behind his eyes. He is aware of the spell doing its work above and around him, but he has his own work to do. He keeps his head down and focuses all of his energy and attention on Minghao, on the point of connection between them, on keeping them both alive.

It only lasts a string of seconds, it can’t be more than six of them, and then the light is gone, shut off and throwing Jihoon into darkness. He gropes at Minghao’s hand, feeling for the rush of lifeblood, and sags in relief when he finds it.

Minghao is alive. They are both alive.

In his grip, Minghao’s fingers twitch, and Jihoon chokes on a gasp.

His eyes fly open, and he stares down into Minghao’s face, blurry with the fading afterimage of Jeonghan’s magic, but alive and awake and staring back at Jihoon with the smallest, most wonderful smile on his lips.

“I knew you would find me,” he whispers, his voice raw and faint, his lips only barely twitching to release the words. His chest is sunken in, concave where the dragon’s weight crushed him. He doesn’t move, his fingers the only part of him that indicates he is not completely paralyzed.

“You could have died,” Jihoon gasps brokenly, feeling tears well up now that the greatest danger has passed. Minghao is injured, but he is alive – Jihoon can fix injuries. He can fix this. “You would have left me.”

“No,” Minghao protests. “I knew you would save me. Trusted you.”

He trusted Jihoon, after everything. And Jihoon trusted him, too.

“We need to get you home so I can fix this,” Jihoon tells him, his eyes tracing over Minghao’s body, slack and broken. “I don’t have what I need here for – for this.”

“Okay,” Minghao says. His eyes slip closed, his fingers squeezing Jihoon’s in the slightest fraction of a true embrace. “I trust you.”

Jihoon will be worthy of that trust. He won’t let Minghao down – not again, never again. Minghao knew Jihoon would find him, save him, and Jihoon did. Jihoon let Minghao risk his life, and Minghao trusted Jihoon to save it.

He doesn’t think he can even name all of the conflicting emotions inside of him right now, but fortunately it doesn’t matter; Jihoon has more important things to do.

He heals Minghao enough to stabilize him and then Wonwoo carries him out of there, Chan running ahead to go fetch horses and a wagon from the nearest farm. Jeonghan walks beside Wonwoo and Minghao, on the opposite side from Jihoon, and catches Jihoon’s eye occasionally. When he does, his gaze is approving, as if Jihoon has passed some kind of test he didn’t know he was taking.

Jihoon spares anything that isn’t Minghao only passing glances, keeping close to his side until Chan meets them with the wagon and then climbing into the back of the wagon with him to stay there, his attention focused solely where it most needs to be, the rest of the world fading to white noise all the way to his own home, where he has them lay Minghao out on his bed and then leave to go find someone else to tend their injuries – Jihoon has eyes only for Minghao.

The next time Minghao wakes, Jihoon wants him to feel no pain, wants him to feel nothing but comfort and safety and warmth. With that goal in mind, he sets to work.

~~~

The day is bright and clear, only a few wispy clouds crossing the sun every now and then, and Jihoon does not think he has ever felt this light or happy or wonderful.

Minghao is lying on a red picnic blanket Mingyu brought over and insisted he use, mindful as everyone is of his still-healing injuries. Minghao himself is surprisingly mindful of his own health, compliant and even cooperative with Jihoon’s continued fussing, even a week later. His eyes are closed, his head tipped to the side, facing Jihoon, his expression peaceful. He might be asleep; they have been out here for several hours now and Minghao tires easily with his body still so strained with the healing process.

Jihoon wishes he could heal Minghao outright, but the injuries were too great for that. He did what he could, and now he can only add small spells here and there to speed along the process. Magic healing has its dangers too, and Jihoon and Minghao agreed that a little more recovery time was worth it for the knowledge that no further damage would be done.

“So when’s the wedding?” Joshua asks, drawing Jihoon’s attention back to him. Junhui is sprawled across him, as usual, and they watch Jihoon with matching sly expressions.

Jihoon shakes his head. “We’re a long way from that,” he says, a bit ruefully. “We have … a lot to talk about before we get there.”

“But you _are_ getting there?” Junhui asks. He looks harmless, his fingers tangled with Joshua’s and his eyes mostly closed, but Jihoon remembers vividly the sight of Junhui furious and ready to take it out on anyone who got in his way when he first came barreling into Jihoon’s house to find Minghao broken and unconscious. He does not blame Jihoon for Minghao’s physical injuries, but Jihoon knows Junhui is aware some wounds cut deeper than skin.

They’re working on it. Jihoon is trying to be less … obsessive, controlling, paranoid, and Minghao, in turn, is communicating more openly with Jihoon about his thoughts and desires and feelings. It isn’t perfect – yet – but they have come a long way in just seven days. Jihoon understands Minghao better than he ever has, and he thinks Minghao understands him better now too. The constant struggle to be mindful, to not fall into old habits, is difficult, to say the least, but Soonyoung – who has become Minghao’s confidante when Junhui’s advice narrows to the unhelpfully breakup-oriented and who also apparently has some experience of his own with rocky relationships – assures them it gets easier.

Jihoon certainly hopes it does. But, even if it doesn’t, he wouldn’t trade what they have now for less of Minghao, not for any amount of ease or comfort.

“We’re getting there,” Jihoon allows, looking back to Minghao. He is surprised to find Minghao’s eyes open now, and staring at him.

Minghao’s lips twitch into a smile, and he lifts one hand to beckon Jihoon over to him. Jihoon is on his feet before he is even aware of intending to move, Junhui and Joshua’s laughter ringing behind him.

He sits on the blanket beside Minghao and takes the hand offered to him, running his fingers over the smooth skin of Minghao’s palm.

“I’m really glad I’m dating you,” Minghao says, apropos of nothing, watching him with warm eyes.

“I’m – me too,” Jihoon says, still a bit unsure of himself when it comes to such blatant declarations of feeling.

Minghao doesn’t mind, fortunately, assuring Jihoon on multiple occasions that he’s willing to wait. He waited all these years for Jihoon, after all; what’s a little longer? Or so he says. Jihoon doesn’t want to make him wait, though.

“I love you,” Jihoon says, with some difficulty. He’s trying to be more honest too, now, the burden of their miscommunications not falling solely on Minghao’s head.

Minghao’s answering smile is wide, the effect of it absolutely stunning, stealing Jihoon’s breath away. He’s glowing in the sunlight, radiant in the golden afternoon, and Jihoon is so, so, so in love with him.

Minghao tugs on his hand, turning his own to curl his fingers around Jihoon’s and pull him down. Jihoon goes willingly, happily, until his ear is right by Minghao’s mouth.

“I love you too,” Minghao whispers, only for him to hear. “I always have. I always will.”

Jihoon doesn’t have any more words for this today. He’s a bard, a man made of words, a professional who makes his living on words, but he has never been good at saying what he means in the moment. He is much better with actions.

Slowly, every time slowly, like it’s the first time, like Minghao might pull away, might want to, Jihoon uses his other hand to tilt Minghao’s face toward him, pulling back just enough to look him in the eyes.

Minghao’s eyes are shining, luminous with dark fire – with love.

Jihoon leans in – not all the way, not pushing, not controlling the almost kiss, just waiting.

Minghao does not keep him waiting long. His free hand comes up to trace over the side of Jihoon’s face, brushing down his cheek and then staying there, guiding him down the rest of the way, and Jihoon goes, follows him, until they touch.

It is a heavy thing to hold a heart in your hand. Jihoon will never again forget it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be complete, art needs to be seen, experienced, witnessed. So – thank you for reading my fic. I’d love it if you left a comment so I know you engaged with it, because that truly is the goal of every written work – to be engaged with – and it’s always wonderfully gratifying and vitalizing to get confirmation of that from the reader. Short or long, constructive criticism or keysmash, all comments are good comments, and all are deeply appreciated (us author-types reeeeally particularly like to hear what you, the reader, liked and found memorable, especially ;-)).


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